


God Willing

by Gemenied



Series: The Kabul-series [2]
Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemenied/pseuds/Gemenied
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she accepted him, he knew he'd never leave her again, even if it meant going to the end of the world. Which is why they find themselves exactly there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Joodiff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don't own the show or the characters. Neither did the setting come to me first - I just play.
> 
> A/N: Since this story was basically inspired by a few lines in Joodiff's awesome story "Walkabout" - this multi-chaptered story is for her. It's part of a series, because the idea is beginning to take a life of its own. Hope you enjoy.  
> Many thanks go to ShadowSamurai for the beta of the first chapter.
> 
> A/N2: On this site the chapter contains a small - more mature - add-on. Happy Birthday, Joodiff.

 

 

Day: -1

"Inshallah." He's repeating the word in his head like a mantra. They've told him in the briefing that this is the most used phrase of the locals and that many of the Coalition soldiers have adopted the phrase. Some sort of blending in and reaction to the stress of the battle, or some such psychological bollocks. It's Grace's job to analyse and deal with this thing, not his.

Still, he repeats the phrase in his mind as he slowly, but methodically, goes through the motions of setting up for the night. The back door, the windows, the front door. It seems a little useless, considering that it is their last night, but there is some sort of routine in it and he needs the normality.

Otherwise he won't sleep.

Upstairs, the shower is turned off, so he hurries to be in the master bedroom before she's out of the en-suite. On his way, he takes pains to ignore the packed suitcases next to the front door. Two. One for her, one for him. Same size. Not many things in there. A lot less than he would consider necessary for a two-week holiday. Most of the things he or she would consider necessary for a two-week holiday trip to Spain will remain here. They are useless where they go.

"Inshallah," he repeats as he enters the bedroom they've shared for the last few weeks and moves around the room to light a few candles. It's not his normal thing, too touchy-feely, but there will hardly be a night when it is more appropriate.

It's their last night here. The last night in safety.

Grace stops in the doorway as she appears from the bathroom and takes a moment to look around. Her smile is small but distinctly amused. "Putting on the romance?" she asks lightly.

He shrugs, but opens his arms in invitation.

She doesn't hesitate and steps into his embrace. She's warm, her skin still a little damp from her shower, and very fragrant from the shower cream she's used. Last indulgence too.  
Boyd holds her tightly against him, trying to banish the constant reminder. So many things are the 'last' tonight and if one started to really think about it....

He isn't sure he would go, if he thought too much about it.

Her hands cup both of his cheeks, then move to gently pull his head back so he has to look up at her. "We made this decision together, Boyd, and we will get through it together."

"No fear?"

"I am afraid," she replies and shrugs lightly. "Doesn't mean that I will step back now."

"You are very brave," he says and means it. It is something he wouldn't have considered possible. The professional offer was summarily forgotten, once Grace admitted to loving him. What he'd said was true, as soon as they admitted their feelings to each other, no offer - despite the truly silly amount of money - would have taken him away from her again.

Boyd's come home to this woman and that's where he intends to stay.

He made the phone call from this very room, this very spot in fact, the morning after the memorable night before. Quietly, so as not to disturb Grace who was still, seemingly, asleep.

"No regrets?" she asked him then and he shook his head and lost himself in her again.

For him, that had been it and it was good that way.

"Don't think too much, Boyd," she says quietly and it sounds alien to him. Wasn't that supposed to be his line?

How she can be so calm in the face of what's expecting them, Boyd isn't sure he can understand.

He refused a second offer, made two days after he rejected the first. He refused a third, a week later, telling the Home Office then that he had personal reasons, his partner was in steady employment in London and he had no intention of leaving her. Maybe that was the mistake. The Home Office, bastards that they had proved to be during the time they had given his police unit a criminal profiler and a forensic scientist, have not changed.

The same evening Grace came home from the office and wordlessly dropped a sheaf of papers onto the kitchen table. He didn't need to read extensively, the letter head was a dead giveaway.

"The amount of money is ridiculous, Boyd."

He shrugged in reply. What could he say?

"Do they want you to convince me?" he asked after a minute or so, during which he tried to read in her face.

There was a small sarcastic smile flitting around the corners of her mouth and for a moment, he didn't know how to take it. "No, they offer me silly money to take a job that will ensure your acceptance of their job offer."

"I told them, I'm going nowhere where you aren't."

She laughed, and it was one of those where he didn't know whether to join in or be offended. After ten years, he still can't tell the difference. When she sobered up, her expression turned so serious and deep that he knew he wouldn't like her next words.

"They heard you loud and clear, which is why they decided that they'd rather take the package deal than not getting anything."

"I don't understand," Boyd replied, which was a lie. It was more his refusal to believe what Grace was insinuating.

"There is only one psychiatric nurse for the entire UK contingent, Boyd. They are short some personnel. "

"You are not going!" he declared, uselessly, of course.

The ensuing 'discussion' was discordant and severe, harshly reminding him of the rows they used to have. It lasted several hours and included the obligatory slammed doors, broken glass, and magnificent sulking on both sides.

Strangely, it gave him relief that they hadn't grown too soft with each other, too complacent yet.

They worked it out at two in the morning, both exhausted, both tired of the old habit. There were more interesting and rewarding things to be done and had. Which they did, after mutual apologies.

Still, and in a way Boyd couldn't believe just how she had convinced him, days later they found themselves in a briefing, outlining the situation in Kabul. Since then, Grace has been of almost stoic composure, taking all the information in and somehow probably saving them all in her memory. The officers briefing them couldn't stop fawning over what a trooper she is, causing the man by her side to growl impolitely.

Secretly, Boyd can't help but admire her too. She's unfazed by all they are told, focussing more on what she's supposed to be doing, not on what could happen.

"Don't think tonight," she says, her fingers tangling and pulling on his hair. The look in her eyes is already so familiar, so clear in its invitation. The composed, intellectual Dr. Foley has the most incredible set of 'come to bed eyes' he's ever seen. In any woman. And it works on him every time.

Her slight body is barely covered by the flimsy silk of a nightgown. Not her usual thing, which tells him that this night is special and important to her as well. Light teal, that brings out the colour of her eyes and her pale skin. There's no need for this kind of seduction, but Boyd is a man and appreciates it all the more.

Tomorrow the indulgences of a soft bed, expensive and fragrant shower cream, and a silky nightgown, will be forgotten luxuries.

When Grace leans down and brushes her lips against his in a clear invitation, he doesn't hesitate. His hands brush possessively up and down her back, cup and squeeze her buttocks as he pulls her slowly down with him onto the bed.

This is the night of all nights.

Their night.

 

* * *

 

The idea comes suddenly, though he can't say that he's surprised. It possibly stems from the effort she's made, unobtrusive as it is. They are beyond grand declarations, or possibly before them, but they are definitely beyond flashy and fancy.

They don't need a grand seduction scene, it would be wrong for this night in any case. What Boyd wants is to feel, to feel Grace...and take his time.

He takes her by surprise as he gently pushes her nightgown up without any further ado.

Grace smirks. "Eager?"

"Always." He grins in return and pulls the silk off of her. "Lie down," he urges gently. She is visibly surprised but does as she's told. "On your stomach," he corrects, earning himself a sceptically raised eyebrow.

"You don't plan on the caveman routine, do you?"

"Would I ever?" He doesn't even need to look at her to know just how she reacts, so he doesn't, just throws a casual, "Just lie down and relax, I'll be right back."

The bathroom is in full indulgence mode, candles blown out, the air heavy with bath salts, lotions and cream. He smiles as he grabs the nearest tube of lotion.

When he returns, she has followed his suggestion, lies on top of the covers, relaxed, eyes closed, and stark naked. Boyd can't help it. He likes the view, likes it a whole damn lot. She's by no means a young thing, something he likes to remind her of to indulge his own ego, more than to hurt hers. But the gentle curves of that slim, tiny body do so many things for him on so many levels. She looks small now, so trusting with her eyes closed, though he'd bet that all her other senses are extremely sharp in that particular moment.

"Relax," he orders quietly.

"You're still dressed."

"Is that a problem?"

Grace chuckles. "You want me to relax, while you're still fully dressed and I'm lying around here completely starkers?"

"What do you want me to do then?"

"Get your kit off."

There are numerous times every day when Boyd wonders why he bothers with her, why in God's name he does this to himself. This isn't one of them. He laughs. Loud and long, only to find the same mirth reflected back at him from blue eyes.

"Never heard that order before?"

"Order?" He draws the word out.

"Order," she confirms. "Take them off, or I'll put mine back on."

Boyd complies, instantly and not entirely artful. It's fast, it's still graceful in a leonine way, but he's in a hurry, which the naked woman on the bed honours with a very unsubtle and very direct review of the assets on display. Her gaze is speculative, just a tad cagey and full of promise.

His reaction is a given, her answering smirk as well.

"Stop that, woman!" he demands, quite possibly for the first time in his life, and the answering look is so predictably arch that he can only shake his head. The slow stretch that goes from her toes right up to her neck brings his focus back sharply and he's almost tempted to forego his original plan.

Almost.

Everything they do always turns into some sort of challenge, some sort of contest, and he likes that too, but it's not what he wants tonight. Any further words....well, they don't need them.

"Relax," he orders again as he climbs onto the bed and straddles her.

"Interesting," Grace comments.

"Grace, for once, just shut up and relax!"

It's not easy for her, he knows. Hell, it's not easy for him either, but this is their indulgence. The last one for a long time.

Just how important it is, Boyd realizes when he opens the tube and recognises the brand of the lotion he's grabbed. All out, that's the thing.

The stuff is cool in his palms, almost cold against the warmth of her skin.

She gasps slightly, which turns into a groan as he begins to work the cream into her skin, loosening muscles and tendons in the process. It's not his aim, they both know that.

His hands remain gentle, gliding over skin, more than working underneath. Slow circles, wide circles, small circles. Hypnotic movements on pale skin. He's watched her over the years, knows her silhouette, he'd say, but nothing's ever been like this. She's pliant, almost boneless under his hands, a sculpture for him to form.

She moans and sighs quietly, almost purrs like a cat indulged.

It works magic on his senses, creates images in his mind of fantastic sensuality. The fact that it is real, Grace under his hands, warm, soft and fragrant, gets Boyd drunk on he doesn't know what.

Using more lotion, his hands leave her back, slip lower to her hips and cheeks. It's hard not to follow his hands with his mouth, but it's not about this, not yet. Grace gasps, of course she does, her shivers giving away that she isn't just relaxed.

"Good?" he asks.

Her reply is inarticulate, but that's enough, just like the sharp gasp she utters as his fingers take a little dip between her legs.

"Good," Boyd confirms himself.

He's a breast-man, he's also an arse-man, and a legs-man too. Truth to be told, he likes everything about a woman. Grace...well...Grace is just about the best package deal he never thought he'd find, and before his very eyes.

As he moves down to her legs, he casts an appraising glance over his previous handiwork and notes with satisfaction and keen interest how the candles throw their flickering lights over her body, how they are reflected in the soft oily sheen on her skin.

Considering how little they've done so far, he can't believe how hard he is, how little he notices anything beyond this bed and Grace lying on it.

"All done?" comes the quiet question and as he looks up, he finds her eyes trained on him, just as languid as her voice and the rest of her body.

He shakes his head, his smile widening when he sees her gaze trained.... Grace is a hedonistic creature, in every aspect of her life. He can almost see how much effort it costs her not to reach out and touch him, drive him further into sensual oblivion.

"Want to do the front too?"

"You want me to?"

She turns over, slowly, deliberately, letting him look his fill.

He doesn't think he could be any more aroused, until she quietly says, "Leave the lotion."

He raises his eyebrows in question, finds her smiling and shaking her head. Grace stretches her hand out for him, pulls him down against her.

She doesn't speak, just looks at him, and hooks her leg over his.

Never having been a man to ignore blatant invitations, he pulls her closer with one hand, palms her breast with the other. Still, the kiss is slow, languid, more a languorous tangle than a means to an end. His thumb circles her nipple, while her hands wander and tease over his sides and back, and her leg slowly rubs against his.

She's open to him, pulls him against her and it doesn't even take any effort for him to nudge between her legs and slip into her.

It's easy, all so unbelievably easy, and if this wasn't the last night....

"No, don't think," Grace whispers, pulling him back to the moment, and he realizes that he must have stopped touching her, moving against her as ugly reality reared its head in his mind.

"This...this is what I want you to think about in the nights to come."

"Not repeat?"

"And repeat."

He smiles and kisses her, resuming their rhythm, drowning again in the slowly building wave. They never move much, never make much noise, until the wave crests and they both fall over, gently and indulgently.

Later, much later, once they've both caught their breaths and Grace idly draws patterns on his skin, she asks quietly, "Very vanilla for you, hmm...?"

Boyd chuckle turns into a sigh. "Rather like chocolate."

"Decadent, then?"

He pulls her tighter against him and draws the covers higher to cover them both. "Indulgent, I'd say.... And well-deserved."


	2. Day 16

**1st - Day 16 (January 22th)**

Nobody who knows him would be surprised by the mood he is in. The day's been abysmal in every way imaginable and he's not dealing well. The average number of snow days in this place is supposed to be only one in January, yet they've been having white sleet for four days now. Not the real thing that covers the land and stays for a few hours at least. It would improve the looks of the place, some actual colour over the depressing grey-brown of the city.

Instead it's sleeting and the dust that hasn't frozen flat tumbles with the ever-blowing wind, forcing itself into eyes and nose and mouth. It causes constant snottiness, which Boyd finds disgraceful. As a result, there's also a lot of nosebleed involved, which a man of his age simply should not have to deal with anymore.

Since it is also freezing cold, Boyd's general disposition is dark. Despite his recent trip all over the world, he finds that his previous words are true. He wasn't roughing it back then, finds that it is no longer his kind of thing. If it ever was. Maybe he's become soft, a creature dependent on his comforts. It's not a pleasant thought for his ego, but he's already found that his ego must take the blow and get on with it.

It's a strange realization and not one he likes particularly, but this place has different rules. He wasn't naive enough to think of this as an adventure camping trip, but reality is even harsher than he imagined.

It's been a hard day today. Not the worst, Boyd thinks, but far from the best too. They've not lost any men throughout the day, but there were two already dead in the morning. He's grateful for small mercies, not having to see a man being blown up in front of his eyes is a lot better than the alternative. But his mind isn't eased.

They are losing men and fast. The fact that they are not soldiers, but simple policemen bringing back some order... But that's the political limbo that is spouted on the big TV channels everywhere in the world. Kabul is just as much a war zone as other areas of this country. It's quieter than other places and he wouldn't want to switch, but anybody thinking that this is just an outdoor adventure trip organized by Hendon is laughably wrong.

Wearily he runs an ungloved hand over his tired face and barely swallows his curse, as his hand falls limply back to his side. There's been dust in his glove, bound by his clammy hands and now he's rubbed it over the skin of his face. A free peeling certainly, but not something he fancied having.

He wonders if there'll be hot water enough for him not only to be warm, but clean as well. It never lasts long, but it would be good. They'll have to share and that's nowhere near romantic as it sounds. Grace doesn't complain, not about her icy limbs or the basic state of their living arrangements. She just smiles and goes on. Somehow.

In this moment, Boyd is sure that she will endure it here a lot longer than he does, but can't explain why. It's hard and it's drab and any romanticised sort of heroics has already gone out of the game.

Today leaves him weary. The two scenes they've visited - one actual and planned crime scene investigation, the other close to home. Their own men. Both face down. Unarmed, in a sidestreet between rubble and rubbish.

Interviews brought the result of bugger all - a pub brawl. It sounds ridiculous, considering that alcohol is still publicly abhorred. In addition, though not overly well, he knew the two men as rather pious Muslims and family men. Unless they were on a stakeout, they'd have had no reason and no inclination to be anywhere near a pub.

He had none ordered.

It's too early in his tenure to risk that. Too early for many things.

It goes against all he is, to go slowly, to make those small baby-steps, to tread carefully. He rails and rages against it, in the small amount of privacy he shares with Grace.

But he isn't there yet, they are still packing up from their day's work and it's still a good hour until his work day is done, even longer for Grace.

He focuses on the proceedings again, taking a deep breath to centre himself. He's in charge, but the men are not yet loyal to him, do not yet trust him the way they need to for this to work.

"Remember the radio-box, Abdul!" he calls, making sure to keep his voice polite, yet firm. Shouting is not the easy ticket here, he's already learned that.

The men expect something from him - actually, both sides of men expect something from him. His employers expect to have Afghan police forces trained with a snip of their fingers, at barely any expense, but with democratic and Western individualist rights fully ingrained into the future policemen. The recruits expect a leader, who doesn't abuse them, but at the same time takes no shit from them. They want a dictator without the violence and the threats.

And they don't want to get blown up at any given moment.

That's easier said than done.

Boyd picks up another of the rusty boxes, not for the first time wishing Eve was there, or Frankie, or even Felix, but there's no money and no interest in forensic science here, and even less the opening for a woman performing it. The case ends up on the back of the SUV with a little more force than necessary, but it's not entirely due to his bad mood.

The wind has picked up, driving the dust around faster, flinging it against everything in its way. The man standing there, just as much as the walls and the cars. It's cold and harsh.

"Lets get out of here," Boyd orders, climbing onto the back of the other SUV. The recruits have to use this kind of transport too, and though he is the ridiculously high-paid English bloke who's supposed to be teaching them the ways of policing, he knows that getting onto some common ground will help him a long way.

Enduring the hardships together, creating a bond and all that crap. Sounds like typical Grace and not for the first time does he wonder whether doing an actual relationship is such a good idea. She might rub off on him too much.

He suppresses the thought quickly, just as the smile threatening to accompany it. It's shortly before evening prayers, the muezzin will call in a few minutes, and somehow it seems...well, it seems odd, thinking about his...woman...while in the back of a truck with a bunch of Muslims.

The drive is short and they make it just in time for the prayer call. The recruits scramble off urgently, but not without at least a polite nod. It isn't much, but it's a start.

Boyd climbs onto the passenger's seat, now that it's just the driver, the interpreter and him. He gives the man cool nod as he climbs out again. Having to rely on somebody to translate his words doesn't sit well with him. He won't keep 'the voice' for much longer, feels it disturbs the connection he built with his men. They all speak basic English and they will learn as things progress. Besides, something bothers Boyd about having to rely on the words of somebody else.

Inside the cabin it is comparatively warm and within minutes exhaustion creeps up on his body. Being outside so much, in this bracing conditions, wears him out, though he'd never admit to it. It wouldn't do any good for his image - the old man who can't take the pace anymore. Yet there is no denying it, only the potholed ground that makes the mile or so to the camp more of a rollercoaster ride than anything else keeps him from succumbing to sleep.

He'll be glad to reach his humble abode and put his feet up. He also wouldn't mind a snifter of good whisky or, alternatively, some of that heavy red wine that Grace has stocked in her house. But the only thing they have is tea and small drops of brandy to go with it.

This is a Muslim country. Alcohol is an affront. If he came to work in the morning and his recruits could smell the remnants...

Boyd shakes his head, tries to bury the thought. Tonight, he thinks, he deserves something and a foot rub, if possible. Grace will silently provide him with the first, but the latter is probably too much asked. She'll raise her eyebrows at him and if worst comes to worse she'll want an explanation, one Boyd isn't willing and capable to give.

Of course, she'll have heard about the two dead men already. This is Grace and at least to him it doesn't come as a surprise that she has already built up lines of underground communication. There is very little in the camp she doesn't hear about before the day is out, and surprisingly much from what happens in town. The grapevine is very active, even in Kabul, and Grace Foley has already redirected the lines to her advantage.

She's a miracle, he muses, as he slowly marches towards the little structure that people euphemistically call a bungalow. It looks and feels nothing like the bungalows he's encountered on his rare holidays. But it's more than the soldiers get, and it's his and Grace's.

Inside, it's dark, the shutters not having been open all day. It's the only way to keep the dust properly out, but with no sunlight the rooms are always dim, always a little unfriendly. It strikes him as odd, how the dungeons of the CCU-offices seemed to be so much warmer, so much brighter. So, the first thing he does is to turn the heating higher and turn on a few lights.

Once this is done, he sheds his utility parka and stumps around the room to check on their evening supplies. It's not much, but he dreads going out again and getting something from the Mess. He will, of course, if Grace doesn't bring any, mainly because he doesn't want her to have to brave the elements again.

Boyd hasn't forgotten, though she seems to have, that it's been two years, barely more, since she was in hospital battling cancer. Since then she gets cold more easily, her lithe body providing less resilience. This weather is absolute horror for her. But she doesn't complain.

Grace never does.

As if on cue the door opens again, admitting Grace, and before she even says anything, he reacts to the visible shivers, pulling her into his arms.

For a few moments they are quiet, absolute silence filling the room. It feels peaceful, for the first time since the morning.

"How are you?" she opens quietly, knowing she won't get an actual, comprehensive answer. It's too early in the pattern they are forming. He won't talk before there isn't some food and some hot drink in him.

She has heard about the two dead men, of course, it was part of the daily camp gossip. The psychologist in her wants to resolve the issue, get him to deal with it, but she knows him well enough to give him some time. Things have changed and Boyd is much more open and outspoken than he used to be, but he will never be somebody to wear his thoughts on his sleeve.

Grace doesn't expect that.

"Do we have any food?" she thus asks quietly. "I'm starving."

"Worked through lunch break?" he asks and admonishes at the same time.

"Like you did, I'm sure."

He smiles, feeling the tension in his body recede a little.

"You okay?" he asks instead, earning him a smile and a nod. "What do you fancy for dinner then?"

It sounds inane, this conversation, but Boyd finds it strangely soothing. The normality of an ordinary life, squeezed into a few hours and thirty feet square. For those few moments they could be a couple like any other, anywhere on the planet.

"I doubt the Mess carries proper Ratatouille tonight," breaks the illusion.

He shakes his head. "Don't think so. Anything you absolutely don't want?"

Boyd's willingness to go and fetch their dinner is clearly implied, but Grace shakes her head. "I'll come with you, some actual fresh air will do me good. Clear my head."

He gives her a long look, trying to gauge the reason for her eagerness to endure the weather again. The list of possibilities is remarkably short and he feels uneasy at the thought of how dangerous her patients could be. What if, one day, one of them...cracks?

She doesn't give him the chance to dwell on it for long, picking up his jacket with one hand, while holding onto him with the other and within a minute they are outside again.

* * *

 

They don't remain in company for long, just enough to order and pick up their food. A few short small talks with superiors or people daring to come up to them, but there aren't many. They are still eyed carefully as the new ones in town, the civilians. Many wonder what two people like them - of their age, is silently added, and professional standing - do in such a place. Of course, they know the official information and the first days have brought nothing to doubt the information value, but they are the odd ones out.

It's also noted how much they keep to themselves, which raises a few eyebrows. The youngsters can hardly imagine that those two actually have something going on, even though they aren't subtle or circumspect. Others shake their head at the choice of place for a romance.

For the moment, it doesn't matter though, the couple is gone quickly; it's warm inside the Mess and there's food to be had and hopefully eaten in a few minutes of peace. They all need it, they all deserve that.

Back in their home, Boyd bustles around lighting candles and making tea, while Grace changes and dishes out the food. It's done quietly, instinctively, which is calming and irritating at the same time. Not something Boyd is used to.

There are many things he isn't used to, especially the close living quarters. It's been years for him since he's shared the same living space with anybody, quite a few more for Grace. She didn't say anything, but Boyd knows that it's only a matter of time until they will fight over the mundane and petty of shared living space, and that she has already analyzed every possible angle of this fact. It will irritate him when the time comes, but that's still in the future and not to be dwelt on.

Grace comes out of the tiny bathroom, shrouded in several layers of clothes against the cold that she feels, even though the building is well heated. Hair dishevelled and without make-up she looks years older and years younger at the same time. It's a mystery to him, but Boyd doesn't complain. He likes the contradiction.

She smiles, unhesitatingly stepping into his arms. They stay like this for a while, in the silence, and for those moments the world doesn't exist.

If Boyd had a say in it, he'd keep it like that, but he's seen Grace's appraising looks during their food tour. She'll ask questions sooner or later and she'll want answers.

Even though he isn't completely happy about it, he will talk.

"Bring up the dishes," he says quietly. "I'll bring the tea."

Grace shakes her head. "I'll do it. You'll get out of those clothes."

He smirks. "Propositioning me before dinner, Dr. Foley?"

"And if I were?"

He gives her a long look through narrowed eyes, trying to gauge how serious she is. At the same time, he tries to discern just how greedy _he_ is.

"Missed your chance," she announces and turns away with a laugh. "Make yourself comfortable, Boyd. I'll do the wifely tasks."

"Wifely," he snorts, but obeys.

 

* * *

 

They've done the dinner, have progressed now to the tea on the small sofa - both mugs with a healthy dose of the brandy. The sofa is pure luxury, provided to placate the ridiculously highly paid civilian experts with a few creature comforts in this God forsaken place.

It's dark, it's cosy, the perfect romantic setting, but Boyd isn't in the mood for it. In fact, the more time of the evening slips away, the more edgy he gets. Grace won't let the events of the day go unspoken, won't let him escape without some sort of 'unburdening talk'. She knows it pisses him off, knows he needs it too.

What drives him mad this time is the fact that she waits for him to start. He doesn't want to, doesn't know how to express that.

"It's a bloody waste!" he all but explodes finally.

Grace doesn't answer, doesn't even noticeably react to his sharp tone. She waits for more, but once this is said, Boyd doesn't have more words for the moment, isn't sure what to say.

"It feels like some fucking conspiracy! Bring them out and we'll kill them one by one. You get one step closer to us, we move two steps away."

"You think it was premeditated murder?" she asks quietly and looks up at him.

He shrugs helplessly. "Two Muslim men, family men, killed in a pub brawl? Outside the area they live in? Anybody who thinks that is a coincidence is a few cards short of the full pack."

She takes his hands and pulls them against her chest, willing warmth and comfort into him. "What does really bother you about this, Peter?"

"Two men are dead, Grace! After we had one dead yesterday, and one the day before, and before that day... What do you think, bothers me about that, huh?"

"Several things, to be honest," she claims and sits up, all business.

"I don't want to hear it!"

The air is suddenly thick with a tension they both know very well from years of experience. Their eyes locked, it's a silent stand-off. Different from the years before, but it will take only a little thing for them to do exactly what they've done for years.

"Sorry," he growls out, not really sounding like he means it.

Still, Grace accepts the word as such. "You worry that tomorrow it will be the same."

Boyd exhales on a sarcastic laugh, rubbing his face tiredly. "I wonder, if there will ever be a day when I come home at night and not have a man killed. When they said during the pre-briefings that about eight men in Afghan police forces get killed every day..."

"...It sounded like a gross exaggeration then, didn't it?" she finishes quietly for him, while she scoots closer and slips her arm around his shoulder. "I didn't believe it either."

"I don't know, if I can do this, Grace. It's like..."

"...Mel all over again." He nods, unprepared for her to continue. "In more ways than one."

"What do you mean?"

She doesn't answer immediately, weighing the words she wants to say quickly against the result that would have. They are still in the exploratory stages and despite all the progress they've made individually and together, this is a longstanding minefield between them.

"Grace?" Boyd doesn't ask, despite the pitch of his voice.

"They do things without your knowledge, without your...permission even...like Mel did when she followed up on her idea with the medallion..."

"Oh trust me, Grace..." He jumps from the sofa and starts pacing, the frustration of the day manifesting in restless energy. "Those men are nothing like Mel..."

"...Not on an emotional level, no, but..."

"And on any other level!" He turns suddenly, leaning down so that their faces are level. It's imposing, this gesture, even intimidating. They both know it, can feel it. They both know too, that it is entirely misplaced in this situation and setting.

The stand-off lasts for a few moments, without either gaining the upper hand.

"It still gets to you," Grace finally announces the verdict.

Boyd exhales noisily instead of an answer, his hands haphazardly running through his hair for want of a better thing to do with them. "Of course, it does, Grace! For fuck's sake, it's either their death or defection to the Taliban with those men! How can that not get to me?"

"It's not your fault..."

"And I can't fucking change it either, I know!"

She doesn't answer, waiting for the storm to pass. While the room seemed cool at first, then cosy, it now seems to be oppressive. It's one of those situations they were warned against, but those people in the briefings didn't know a thing, did they? Didn't know how personal policing is to Boyd, how volatile their relationship still is. The strain...

"What can I do?" she asks. The inanity of the question makes her cringe, it's a throwback to old times in the office. Grace doesn't need to think hard to imagine how this will play out.

Much calmer than expected Boyd sits down again and suddenly his arm is around her shoulder. If it weren't for the tight squeeze of his hand on her arm, nothing would betray just how worked up he is. "Be here and stay here," he says.


	3. Day 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It's been a long time, since I posted, but I hope you are still with me and will 'enjoy' this chapter as it is.

**2nd - Day 39 (February 14th)**

He doesn't like the way he feels, doesn't like the wind throwing the dust against his face. It is scratchy, painful, but it is the only thing that cuts through his numbness.

Such things have happened to him before, but never like that, and never with such a clear image in his mind of what he would be leaving behind and in what a state. His fists are clenched on his knees, the only outward sign of weakness he is willing to give. Everything else is hidden behind his closed eyes.

Boyd knows he can't keep the world shut out like that for long. Of course not. Much less after what has just happened. He can feel their eyes on him, expecting something, anything. He isn't sure he can give them that.

He's always been woeful at the personal thing, the verbal, warm encouragement - that is Grace's terrain. It is, of course, feasible to think that a more brash approach would be more successful amongst the men, but this place is such an interaction minefield - every word or gesture possibly deadly - that he can't trust himself.

Besides, the images are still running through his head, yet he can't make head nor tail of where it has gone wrong. Everything has been normal until that very moment. They've left the base, prepared to do some crime scene work. It's an easy enough case - breaking and entering having gone wrong. Boyd still isn't sure why anybody would even attempt a burglary when everybody in the area is so painfully poor, but to find the reasons is part of their job.

The weather has been abysmal all day, stormy with spots of heavy rain. They needed to get the scene processed quickly before all outside evidence was washed away and all inside trampled on by dirty shoes. With him were a few of the more experienced recruits, all four of them hardened men who were shocked by little. They've lived in a war zone all their lives, gun shots firing around them hold little fear.

The street had looked as desolate as many others and quickly it had become clear that the burglar could hardly have been after any riches. Unless, of course, the house had been used as a storage for guns or drugs, or some money laundering office. Of course, they've stuck out like sore thumbs with their truck, their equipment and even their clothes - stuck out and eyed suspiciously.

Maybe that was when he should have become more vigilant. But the idea of a chase, of the puzzle they'd have to solve, actual police and detective work to do - Boyd had been too pleased with this little bit of professional normalcy to watch their surroundings more carefully, and the men hadn't bothered.

And now they are sitting on the back of the truck being shaken back to camp and Boyd doesn't know what to say. The men are still looking at him, though he isn't entirely certain what they expect of him - encouragement, sympathy, a raise of their spirits?

Grace would know, of course, would probably have noticed the danger building up, before it hit them so spectacularly. But she is safely (hopefully) ensconced in her office dealing with some young Private's heartbreak over his girlfriend's tears back home. She can't help him now.

Groaning inwardly, Boyd opens his eyes and unclenches his fists, then leans forward towards the men. Not too much, so as not to invade their space, but to create some sort of closeness. Giving the men a quick, crooked smile, he speaks quietly, expecting the interpreter to pick up and translate. They probably don't need him, but the man needs to feel useful, doesn't he?

"You did well out there," he says. "Disciplined under pressure and focused on the job. That was good work."

Looking every man in the eyes individually, he nods to reiterate the meaning behind his words. Loyalty and discipline is, for the moment, more important than proper procedure. It is something, if very little.

The men return the look, long and hard, before the eldest of them slowly nods. "Thank you," he replies, though the words are difficult to distinguish under the heavy accent.

It is like this that they rumble into the courtyard of their base, with dents and holes in the side of the truck, dirt thrown all over it, but thankfully no blood spilling over the metal. They've been lucky and they all know it.

* * *

 

It is late by the time Boyd reaches the military base and is finally free to slowly and sluggishly make his way towards their bungalow. If he is honest, he doesn't relish coming home. He isn't ready for questions, isn't ready or even willing to talk about his feelings in lieu of being shot at during crime scene procedure.

He is numb and would prefer to remain that way, preferably with a few whiskeys to help along.

Only Grace won't accept that, she will press and needle until he explodes in desperate defence, and then they'll be hell in the middle of a spectacular row. She's been tartly and glib for days, something weighing heavily on her mind, disturbing her built-in serenity.

He's been worried about it, about her, but tonight he isn't in the mood to deal with it, to cater to her needs. He is needy tonight. Needs her to cater to his wishes. Not the other way around.

The compound is bright as day through the hundreds of floodlights lighting it. It's so harsh that Boyd wonders whether the compound can be seen from space, but down here it's a stark reminder that all those lights are search lights as well, to find any possible assassin before they can do their work.

It feels warmer in here, an illusion maybe, but Boyd is glad for it. His gaze goes automatically to the medical offices. It's late and the windows are mostly dark, but he finds the sight somewhat soothing. If Grace only lets him be tonight, asks no questions, doesn't demand explanations, doesn't even try for small talk, they'll somehow get through tonight.

Of course, there's one thing she could do, though Boyd knows they aren't like that and he doesn't want her to feel like she has to. Though...in all honesty...tonight...

His steps are heavy, the collar of his jacket chafes against his neck, the wind burns against his ears. Still it feels warmer, which is all good and fine, given that the deepest winter should begin to lift now in mid-February.

The short row of bungalows at the end of the pathway catches his eye and Boyd rejoices just as much as he dreads reaching their somewhat homely front. Inside it will be dark, but hopefully Grace will have the heating turned up and some food on the table. A whisky or two as well. The best part about that crappy domesticity.

And hopefully her mood will be better than it has been those last days.

Boyd still bristles at it, the domesticity. It was a given, yes, but they share little over 30 feet square, which is a huge luxury on this compound, especially since this area is private, but they are two long-time singles, set in their ways and fiercely territorial.

It's not the best mixture, despite the fact that she loves him and he adores her. Not the easiest thing at all. Maybe that's the problem, has been for the last days, but somehow Boyd isn't so sure.

Something is niggling at the back of his mind, just out of his reach, but he can't grasp it. Some edginess he's caused or should be aware of, but he isn't. It's frustrating, an added irritation in his already unpleasant day.

The inside of the bungalow is warm and dim and there's a glass on the coffee table, which is filled with amber liquid. The burning candles are giving the place a homey feeling. There's even a little quiet music in the air. All of it is appreciated, more than Boyd thought he would do, but at the same time the situation confuses him. Except the music there's nothing out of the ordinary - the rooms are usually dim and they use candles quite often. Even the occasional whisky appears in the privacy of those walls.

It's the combination of things, the numbers, that confuse him. There's also the smell of Grace's perfume in the air, stronger than he's used to, though that may be due to the day he's had and the atmosphere outside and the countryside and God knows what.

Boyd doesn't question it, just drops his jacket over the back of a chair and his boots next to the coffee table. His feet go up onto the surface automatically as he leans back and sips from his whisky. This is the peace and quiet he has waited for since all hell broke loose.

"Boyd?" Grace asks quietly behind him and he slowly and languidly turns his head and mumbles out a detached "Evening. What's for dinner?"

"Hello." Her reaction isn't very positive or very eager. In fact, there is slight, but distinctive anger in her voice. She stands there just in front of the bathroom door, as if expecting something, but when it doesn't come, she slips back into the room and closes the door behind her.

It confuses him but he doesn't feel like analysing the situation and just shrugs, returning to his whisky.

The next time Grace appears, some time later, there's a definite air around her. She moves somewhat jerkily, tension radiation off of her. She makes her way to the small kitchenette and dishes the food out, with more force than strictly necessary. It's not obvious, but Boyd knows her well, can't help but pick up on it.

"What is it?" he asks, trying to keep his voice on the gentle side. He's tired, irritated and frustrated, and the last thing he could stand tonight is a row with Grace over his apparent lack of emotional perception. Something is off, has been for a while, and he is loath to let it go on. Knowing Grace, it will only get worse.

"Grace," he starts with more force. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing." The answer is short and on the cool side, a clear indication that it's a lie.

He nods, though they both know that it's not affirmation he states. "Nothing," he repeats.

"What do you want, Boyd?"

The speed and harshness of the reply surprises him, makes him get up from the sofa and start for the kitchenette. He can hear Grace sigh loudly and unwelcomingly, but he's never been one to back down, just because it would have been easier.

"Look, Grace," he says as calmly as he can muster. "I've had a shit day. Shit in capital letters. I don't have the energy to guess what's got you so pissed off with me, so why don't you just tell me?"

"Then what?" she replies, giving him a hard stare. When he doesn't answer, her frown deepens, her voice becoming even more pronouncedly harsh. "What happens then, Boyd? You apologise for a change? You shag me to get it out of my system? You slam the front door and bunk with the soldiers in avoidance?"

They are silent for a moment, locked in a staring contest, locked in vitriol they haven't experienced in years, then Boyd turns, stomps into his boots, grabs his jacket and is out of the structure before either can react.

Inside, Grace leans against a cupboard, eyes screwed shut, nails digging into her palms.

* * *

 

It's no surprise to Boyd that he ends up in the Mess. There is no other place to go at this time of the day in the camp. This is the place for a drink, for movies to be shown, for pretty much all extra-curricular activities. Everybody turns up at this place at some point.

It's also the only place where the soldiers can openly get some alcohol, though in fairly low doses.

And at this time of the year - it's warm.

To Boyd's surprise the place is packed and, even more surprisingly, the atmosphere is subdued. As usual there are small groups of lads who cause commotion with horseplay and laughter, also taunting their fellows, but even that is quieter than normal.

There hasn't been a large number of casualties that day, in fact, Boyd hasn't heard of one, so the low mood strikes him as odd. It's also obvious that many of the soldiers prefer to sit alone.

At the counter, he orders a shot of whisky and pays quickly with a growl when the Private behind gives him a confused look. He's not the first who does so since he's entered the room and that makes Boyd edgy.

Of course, Grace and he are some sort of sensation in the camp - the civilian oldies who seem to like war zones as backdrop for a romance. It's a bit derisive, a bit derogatory, and if Grace didn't find the entire gossip so funny and Boyd cared any bit about it, he'd be a whole lot more shouty.

Alas, gossip is nothing new and at least it's been mostly respectful. At least, Grace has never said anything to the contrary. The thought begins to nag at Boyd's consciousness, a memory sweeping over him and the he quickly tries to suppress it. There's still the sheepish shrug and the no fuss-comment. And there's still the bed and the pyjamas, which for some reason he remembers intensely. And grapes. Which she wasn't allowed to eat.

Grace would tell him now, wouldn't she?

He sits down at a table near the back of the Mess, his back towards the wall, keeping the room in sight. The whisky isn't good quality, staple, supermarket-stuff, they have much better in their bungalow. For emergencies. Still, it does the job, burns down his throat, aids the brooding.

Grace would tell him if something was wrong, now that they are officially a couple. Wouldn't she? He knows she can take care of herself, he'd never dare to doubt that. She can resolve sticky situations much more elegantly than he does, but if somebody or something bothered her, she'd tell him, her partner. It's something they agreed on when they started. It's something they, he, intends to keep.

With annoyance, Boyd notices somebody sitting down next to him, his temper quickly rising when the young woman, one of the nurses who sometimes helps out for Grace, starts to speak. "What are you doing here, Mr. Boyd?"

He gives her a half-glare and raises his glass in reply. The whisky sloshes slightly against the walls of the glass.

The nurse frowns. "Why drink here? And alone? Today, of all days."

Boyd doesn't answer, though his frown deepens. In the stretching silence the nurse looks away and stares into mid-distance, slipping into some sort of melancholy haze.

"Anything special about today?"

The woman snorts derisively, then gives him an incredulous look that's mixed with anger. "February Fourteenth: you figure it out, Mr. Policeman. Especially since you are pretty much the only one in camp who can actually do this day this year." She shakes her head in aggravation and takes a gulp from her own drink.

Boyd doesn't do such festivities on principle. All those supposedly romantic things, which media and industry force you to go through. All these flowery, sweet things, he isn't the type for. Never had Grace pegged to find it important either. On the other hand, this is their first, he's never been in the situation to know or to ask. And Grace, he is quickly finding out, has many more secrets than he had expected. Maybe she is conventional in this regard and it would explain her edginess of the last days.

It certainly explains the candles and the drink and... In different surroundings and with different companions, this would be the moment where Boyd groans loudly to make his displeasure known. He doesn't.

Instead he downs his whisky and marches out of the Mess.

* * *

 

Inside the bungalow it is fairly dark, only two candles remaining. Their light is pithy and thus it takes Boyd a while to realise that Grace is sitting on the sofa, all but rolled into a ball. Her voice is rough when she quietly says, "I don't want to fight, Peter."

"This is not about me ignoring Valentine's Day," he states in reply.

She doesn't answer, which in itself is answer enough.

Gingerly, he sinks down into the upholstery and searches for her hand. She's cold, as always.

"No."

It's all that comes out and when silence stretches again, Boyd feels himself getting fidgety. "We were shot at today," he finally says. "Down at the scene. Came out of nowhere, some machine gun magazine emptied at us. The body work of the SUV is full of holes."

Grace remains silent. The only reaction is a turning of her hand in his. Her palm isn't much warmer than the back of her hand is.

"It seems to be the same every day. One dead, two dead, we are shot at..."

"You didn't expect that to happen in a war zone where foreigners aren't wanted?" She doesn't sound very forthcoming or understanding, but Boyd isn't speaking to receive either. The silence needs to be filled. The conversation kept going until Grace speaks for herself.

It's a new situation. A strange situation. In all those years, it's never been Boyd to take on the role of mediator between them. They fought, they made up, after a while and without many words. Not even an "I'm sorry." has been said in all their rows. This is new and he isn't sure it is the thing for him.

He squeezes her hand, glad to feel a response. "I don't know what I expected," he says. "But getting shot at on Valentine's Day wasn't it."

"So you remember that it's today."

The look he gives her from the corners of his eyes is long and speculative, silence filling the room again for a while. When Boyd speaks again, he is certain of what he says. "If that were the problem we wouldn't be sitting here like this. Holding hands, I mean."

Grace doesn't answer, but at least there's a quick twitch in the corners of her mouth.

"I'm not the flowers-type, you know that. Or the chocolate-type."

"What type are you?" she asks, the twitches turning into wobbly smirks.

"If it wasn't too obvious I'd say the 'Ann Summers'-type."

"Get out!" The reply is forceful, but there is no real antagonism in her.

"Which is why I'm not saying it." They are dispelling the tense situation with their trusty method of banter.

"Good."

"You are cold," he changes the subject, getting up to pick up a blanket and spread it over her. "And you look like you need a drink to tell me what's going on, Grace."

The tension they've just dissolved reappears in Grace's frame, along with a grimace she can't hide quickly enough. She's not happy with the arrangement, though she looks like she is resigned to the fact. It leaves him with a mixed bag of emotions, the fact that she's apprehensive to tell him something taking him back months and that damn hospital room. On the other hand, he's pleased to have noticed, relieved that whatever it is, it won't fester.

When they are settled, now both under the blanket, with a tumbler in their hands each, Grace swallows the drink almost in one go. She doesn't even cough, just stares sightlessly into the bottom of the glass.

"I don't like when you are being shot at," she finally ventures. "And I know," she stems Boyd's instinctive reply, "that you don't like it or asked for it either. I don't deal well with it."

He raises his hand to gently massage the back of her neck. "I don't like it either. The only thing that gives me any sort of calm is knowing that you are relatively safe in here."

"Because those soldiers protect me?" Her voice sounds even more monotone than before, her gaze fixed on the glass.

Boyd doesn't like the sound, doesn't like the uneasy ideas he's beginning to get. "Did anybody do...?"

"A Private, barely twenty...his girlfriend dumped him in the email he opened this morning. On Valentine's Day, he said... I had forgotten and if he hadn't said it..." She swallows. "I took his gun away. It was fully loaded, unsecured. He'd brought it to my office."

Though he desperately wants to ask, if only to hear a negative answer, Boyd doesn't.

"He wanted to shoot himself. In my office." Grace looks up, locks her gaze onto his.

The intensity shocks him, makes him worry. "I'm not safe here, Boyd. You need to accept that. Nobody _is_ safe here."

He pulls her roughly against him, heedless that they might stain the blanket with the leftover whisky, heedless of anything really, except holding Grace tightly against him, reassuring himself and her that they are healthy and alive, real. His hands wander, naturally, over and underneath clothes, unbelievably glad to feel Grace responding in kind.

It's an awkward fumble on the narrow sofa, careful as they are to keep the blanket covering them. Still they manage to wrestle out of clothes and into position, spooned together. It never ceases to amaze Boyd how well they fit, how simple it is with them.

Grace fits him, his body, his mind, her hands knowing without question how to touch him. They move carefully, unhurriedly and yet there's some desperation to the act, born from fear, born from the realisation of their vulnerability. Uncommonly, they are both quiet at the pinnacle, Grace biting her lower lip to even keep in her low sob. Boyd buries his face in her hair as he comes, unwilling to allow even the slightest distance.

They are quiet afterwards, though it is a much more calm silence than before.

"Not exactly how I imagined our first Valentine's Day to be," Boyd breaks the quiet after a while.

"You imagined...?" Grace sounds wobbly, which makes him scramble a little to see her face. There are tears slowly tracking their way over her cheeks and temples, just a few, but enough to pull on every string of feeling Peter Boyd possesses.

He shrugs, a little sheepishly. "I don't do flowers and chocolates and I promise I ignore Ann Summers, but, yeah...I did."

She smiles, though new tears spill, which he tenderly wipes away with his thumb.

"Why don't we go somewhere more comfortable...?"

"Where you can have your wicked way with me?"

"That too," he grins and lets his hands wander for some cheeky squeezes. "Once you've told me what else is bothering you."

Grace buries her face in his arm, pulling his body closer like a blanket that hides her. Boyd can't hear her muffled comment, but he's fairly sure he knows what three words she's just said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.


	4. Day 64

**3rd - Day 64 (March 14th - Saturday)**

When Boyd wakes up that morning, he thinks he might want to purr from the pure bliss he's in. It's not perfect, of course. The bed is a little too narrow, the mattress a little too hard and the sounds from outside don't sound at all like awaking London, but that matters little. Underneath the covers with him, her body pressed tightly and relaxed against his, is Grace. Still asleep as far as he can tell, her breath shallow, her body pliant and warm.

He relaxes into her, not bothering about the time. It's his first two full days off since arriving in this hellhole and he plans on not being rushed on anything. It's the reason why he starts his exploration of Grace's body very slowly, just his fingertips skimming over her skin. He can feel her react, hairs standing up on end, goose flesh remaining in the wake of his touch.

It takes a while until her mind becomes as conscious as her body is, the road there filled with quiet purrs and moans. So often she reminds him of a cat - languid, indolent, lackadaisical, hedonistic. It's one of the beautiful things between them. Grace doesn't even start at his touch, she simply slips slowly from sleep in languid participation.

When she turns in his arms, her eyes are still not entirely focused but her lips find his unerringly, just as her hands find their targets and do some exploring of their own.

It turns into a perfect start for what is hopefully a perfect weekend, except that it won't be, because while Boyd is free, Grace has to work.

Saturday is a busy day, weekends the time when the young men around here are hit by the realisation of what they are missing at home. Boyd still has not completely successfully pushed aside the memory of Valentine's Day. In fact, he isn't entirely at ease when he leaves the compound, leaves Grace among so many armed men.

One is enough, he knows that, even though he knows just as well that she knows what she's doing. Grace will handle it, she can handle everything. At least that's what she keeps telling him.

Boyd watches her as she slips out of the bed, rushing around the dimly lit room gathering her clothes without bothering to actually dress. There's a lot to be said in appreciation of that slim back and the curved backside.

Boyd likes watching Grace, he likes what he sees, likes how she deals with his scrutiny. It's the cat thing again. That and her innate sense for hedonism, which has kept him fascinated for years.

"Why don't you stop ogling and see about getting me some coffee while I get ready?" she asks fondly, though her question is more than a casual request. She gives him a cheeky but encouraging grin, one that Boyd knows better than to ignore.

With an exaggerated groan he rolls out of the bed as well, wondering how desperately he really needs to dress, but there's a distinct chill in the air whose effects he has already pleasantly watched. But watching and feeling are a little different so he opts for the barest necessities of clothes.

"One coffee and some toast coming up, then. As you wish, my lady."

"The lady wishes," she announces and departs into the bathroom.

It's a very domestic setting, Boyd realises. Making the morning coffee, getting the toast ready so the missus can depart for the hustle and bustle of the job. Asked two years ago, he would have shouted to dismiss the suggestion. Asked one year ago, he would still have laughed. Now he is doing it. Playing the house-husband for a morning. Grace probably has a full day ahead of her, the numbers of her patients seemingly growing every week.

She's become popular with those young men, who not only sense the professional but also her natural warmth.

"It's the Mummy-factor," Grace has quoted one of the medical doctors in the hospital. From the tone she used, it wasn't meant as a compliment. The thought drifts back into Boyd's mind while he goes through the menial motions. Not just the words but the inflection in her voice, the set of her shoulders and the exact number of tension lines around her mouth.

Boyd is an expert at reading the minute details of her body and her behaviour. Those words bother her. That guy bothers her. And that bothers Boyd.

"You are good in the kitchen, Peter," Grace smirks as she saunters by and takes the mug from him. Her body presses briefly against his in thanks and promise, causing the obvious natural reaction. "Tonight," she grins in promise.

They are silent for a few moments as they both sip their coffees. Leaning against the countertops, they face each other and naturally there's little hiding possible.

"What is it, Peter?" Grace asks quietly.

"If Pearson makes those comments again...," he starts, noticing immediately how Grace tenses.

"It's nothing," she interrupts.

"If he makes them again," Boyd insists. "And that arsehole _will_ make them again..."

"You'll go and beat him up?" Her mug ends up on the countertop hard. "Boyd, I don't need you to fight my fights! How many times...?"

"Pearson needs you more than you need him!" Boyd grouses. "And he should damn well behave like that too!"

"Like you did when my assessments didn't agree with your theories?"

"He belittles you..."

"Once again, Boyd..." He knows that tone, knows the words that will inevitably follow, but Grace stops herself before she can say them.

"We'll talk tonight," she says instead and turns towards the door. There's a tense moment as she passes him. The domestic kiss goodbye isn't in the cards for now, Boyd isn't even sure if he will receive any acknowledgment at all. Her fingers brush briefly against his and squeeze.

And then she's gone.

* * *

 

It bothers him, the way she left. It bothers him that they left the matter unresolved. It's not the first time and it won't be the last, but it actually bothers him.

Boyd knows he's put his foot in it and it might compare to navigating a minefield to get out of it. Major Doctor Pearson may be an arsehole, and for that alone Boyd would like to turn the man into his own patient, but Grace doesn't appreciate him muscling in on her troubles. Even when he almost got shot by Charles Hoyle, even then she gave him a serious piece of her mind.

She can handle men like Pearson, she'll tell him, and it will be the truth.

It might be that he's thinking too much about this. Grace can take care of herself and she has explained to him more than once, and usually in the patient sort of tone that simply makes his teeth grind, that she can handle arsey people, men especially, has been doing it for decades. Boyd knows, of course, that Grace has spent her entire career fending off people who felt she needed to justify herself - for her sex, her origin, her field, her theories. He's challenged the latter many times. And he's lost the argument most of the time too.

Grace can do it.

Boyd knows that.

It bothers him nonetheless.

"I know that what I do is inadequate to what is needed. I know it's never enough," she'd said the other night and under the impression of the almost tragedy on Valentine's Day, Boyd listened very carefully. It bothered him too to hear that tone, because Grace has no talent for despondency.

All this thinking makes him antsy, proved by the fact that he's already paced at least two stadium rounds within the confines of their tiny living room. The plain and simple fact is he doesn't know what to do with all this time on his hands.

He could go to the compound gym but the thought of being watched by ultra fit twenty-somethings while he's wheezing his way through a few miles on the treadmill or moves some comparatively small weights has absolutely no appeal. Jesus, he could tattoo 'old and washed out' right onto his forehead. Besides, he doesn't feel like company. Except Grace's of course.

There's so little to do in the camp in this abysmal March weather. No sports to do or to watch, no proper TV, and he's too unsettled to read something. Gambling has never been his thing either and except his job, he's never been one for hobbies.

In a word, Boyd is bored as well as unsettled.

It doesn't bode well for the future, once this assignment is over and he's actually...retired. He can't even think about the word without cringing. London isn't Kabul, of course, and with Grace there's actually quite a lot to look forward to. But the fact remains... What will Peter Boyd actually do with his days? What will he actually do when Grace is busy and he has exhausted all options of just roaming the streets of the city?

Kabul is only a stop gap, and one he wouldn't want to repeat, but what comes then?

Boyd stares at the papers on the countertop, Grace's case notes from two days ago. Her semi-retirement seems so clear, so obvious. But what about him? What will a retired detective, who always planned to leave his job only in a box, do?

* * *

 

The morning grinds on, but Boyd's mood doesn't improve. The bungalow is like a cage, closing in on him and his restless energy. It's also deathly quiet.

The sound startles him badly, but then Boyd is grateful for the ringing of the phone. There aren't many people who would call and Boyd grumbles by default at the possibility that he might be called out on his day off.

In reality he'd be glad of it, anything to escape his thoughts.

"Boyd!" he barks into the receiver and half-expects Grace to be on the other end and scold him for his lack of politeness.

The voice of the caller, however, is distinctly male and obviously businesslike. Their conversation is short and to the point and the call isn't even finished completely when Boyd begins to pull on his jacket and his boots.

It's a fairly long trip to the scene, a remote corner of the city. Over an hour to go on a positive estimation. Even if it goes smoothly, he won't be back by the time Grace gets out of her office. She won't worry though, when she doesn't...

Boyd stops inwardly at the thought. He isn't that callous where Grace is concerned. Not even when they are at odds with each other. The information he's been given sounds straightforward, the situation described sounds straightforward as well.

A man, shot dead in a side street.

In London, Boyd would be on his way without a second thought, excitement speeding up his steps. But this is Kabul. Here, one step over the invisible line and you are dead. Here, going anywhere at any time and in any given way can mean you won't return alive.

It hits him that if he died on this outing, the last exchange with Grace would have been a tense, unpleasant standoff. Not a row, but an unresolved issue.

He grabs the phone, dials her office extension.

Instinct, not conscious thought.

Just let her know that he's going. That she's aware.

The phone keeps ringing, unanswered, and with every tone Boyd grows more tense. She wouldn't ignore him just because, would she?

An insistent knock on the door stops all thoughts of this kind, forcing him to abandon the phone and focus on the task at hand.

* * *

 

It goes from bad to worse. The scene sullied by seemingly thousands of footsteps, the corpse picked through. It looks as if even the dogs have had a go at the sad victim that is lying in the shade of a wall. Boyd eyes the men with him, amongst them two newbies, and not only do they appear nervous to be recognised, but it becomes obvious quickly that they have no idea what to do. And little interest for it.

Boyd isn't even sure he knows their names properly, not something he is keen on in this situation.

"Who are they?" he quietly asks one of his most seasoned trainees. The man, Mahmoud, is no Spencer but he is amongst the really promising.

Mahmoud shrugs, causing Boyd to frown.

"Know anything about them?"

Again, Mahmoud shrugs.

"Get working on the scene before they trample on anything we desperately need. Take Ahmed and Ranhja with you." The men scamper away to pick up the few tools they have, providing at least some satisfaction to their trainer.

Watching the new men carefully, Boyd observes their general surroundings. It is pretty much the expected, straightforward thing. One of the abundant numbers of weapons available in this town has been used to kill this man. Clothes show him to be a civil servant to one of the Western occupation forces and Boyd guesses the dead man has probably worked for the Germans. The place is close to their compound, the victim's parka is dyed in their khaki and it's a well-known fact about town that they leave their local assistants hanging, so to speak.

There are blood splatters on the wall behind the corpse, even to the regular eye showing the trajectory angle of the lethal bullet. Back to the wall, the victim slammed against it and winded, possibly unconscious by impact, pain and blood loss then slid down to the ground. Death happened early in the night.

Eve could verify this and specify facts he can only speculate at, but it's a pretty good guess as far as he is concerned. He guesses even more, but it won't help them in the long run, that the killer will in all probability remain at large. Or if they manage to catch him exonerated.

Stepping closer to the corpse, Boyd is again uneasily aware of the new men who don't seem to fill any purpose but to stand in the way.

"Move it!" he commands, still fairly calmly, and gestures for them to make room for their fellow trainees to work. The men eye him unaffectedly and only shuffle a few inches further, which makes the situation worse, because they disturb possible footprints even further.

"Move further!" Boyd commands again, his voice taking on the clear and unmistakable quality of an order. When it garners no visible reaction he repeats his order, even reverts to the bit of Arabic he has picked up.

If anything, the men become even more closed off, their faces showing contempt.

The interpreter, hovering obtrusively close to the new men, sneers.

Boyd turns to him, barely reigning in his contempt for the man. If he were any of his officers back in London, he'd just shout him down. No such luck here and now.

"Tell them to step out of the immediate crime scene space. They are disturbing evidence."

The interpreter, short and wiry, just makes a small gesture. Unfamiliar, but easy to read.

"They are here to learn first, tell them to step aside," Boyd repeats, as calmly as possible.

Apart from the other man's face slowly becoming a scowl, there is no reaction.

It's in that moment that Boyd realises that something is about to go horribly wrong here. There are two men behind his back, both strangers, both impossible to gauge. And there is one man in front of him, about to drop his mask.

And he's got nothing to defend himself.

"Tell those two men to step aside from the scene," Boyd repeats once more, very calmly. "And then leave as well."

"Leave?" the other man asks, then scowls again.

"Leave," Boyd declares. "You are dismissed from your services."

After seemingly eternal seconds of silence, everything disintegrates into chaos as the now former interpreter pulls a gun from his jacket - small, handy, Boyd absurdly notices - and fires, before the weapon is even fully out.

The first bullet goes into the wall, a foot above their corpse. But the second is better aimed, grazing Boyd at his jaw.

The third will hit him right in the head or the chest, he just knows it. Knows, underneath the pounding of his blood, the heat coiling in his stomach and spreading blindly and wildly throughout his entire body, that this will be it.

A dirty, dusty side street in Kabul will be the place where Peter Boyd ends. Shot by a traitor.

* * *

 

The third bullet doesn't come. At least, Boyd feels no impact. The events happen so quickly, almost in a blur. He doesn't even know what is going on. He hears the third shot. Hears a fourth, but there is no impact.

Instead there is a tangle before his eyes, three men caught in a wild struggle over something.

It lasts forever, until there's suddenly an eerie silence in the air.

"Okay?" Mahmoud asks in his broken English, his heavy accent made even more incomprehensible by his heavy breathing.

Boyd nods numbly as his vision slowly clears and he comprehends what's before his eyes. Their former interpreter, now kneeling down beneath some considerable force from the bulky Ahmed, his hands now bound together behind his back by some industrial tape. Defeated, but defiant. The hand gun lies a few feet away, young Ranhja securing it with his foot.

Behind them there is a ravaged dead body and a lot of empty space, their two 'newcomers' having miraculously disappeared during the melee. It's no surprise.

"Take him to the station for questioning," Boyd orders with a small gesture of his chin.

"No use. Questioning," Mahmoud struggles out.

Boyd nods. "I know," he replies tiredly.

If they receive any statement, it will be the same as it has been almost every day over the last weeks. This is just one more deserter in a long line of deserters. Nothing new, really.

A bloody fucking pain in the arse!

"Let's pack up here," Boyd says finally, choking down his anger. It's of no use.

"The body?"

Boyd turns towards his trainees, a small resigned smile on his face. "Was planted to lure us here. We will gather more information from the interview than we can gain here for the moment." Shrugging, he makes towards their vehicles. "We call services from the station."

* * *

 

The sun has long set when he finally trudges back into the bungalow. It's quiet and little illuminated, and Boyd is grateful for it. Their uneasy parting in the morning now seems like a thing of the distant past, but he isn't up to the discussion of any relationship issues.

He wants a stiff drink, a hot shower and then to fall into bed and sleep without a thought or dream.

"Doesn't look like much of a day off, or have you only now stumbled out of a bar that I didn't check in search of you?"

"I'm not in the mood, Grace," he says tiredly and if she's anywhere near as smart as he knows she is, she will let it lie.

"Obviously," she replies, blandly ignoring the warning in his voice.

"I mean it! I don't want to discuss..."

"What?" she asks quickly, rising from her seat on the sofa. "That I spent most of the late afternoon trying to find out where you were?"

Her words are accusing, but Boyd can't make out if the sound of her voice actually matches the meaning of the words. He also briefly wonders how it can be that her perfect connection to the camp grapevine hasn't provided her with the necessary information.

She steps closer, eyeing him in the low light, and he can't look at her properly. His thoughts from earlier come back, that if he didn't call her and was...

The thoughts mix with the images of that side street, of that gun pointed at him, and it becomes some bizarre cacophony in his head. He almost sways from the assault of images, or possibly it's just exhaustion, but he feels like the world is beginning to swim.

Grace's hand, cool against his skin, grounds him somewhat. She carefully turns his chin first left, then right and then takes his hand with her free one. "You wish it had been some obscure bar, don't you?" she says quietly and Boyd can't help but nod.

She leads him to the sofa, sits him down and busies herself making tea, with alcohol. In fact, when she sets down the mugs on the table in front of them, a small bottle of amber liquid is placed beside it.

"Nobody bothered to clean the blood from your jaw," she observes matter-of-factly, but doesn't make to do so either. Boyd isn't surprised. He can see it, feel it in her posture that she doesn't want to have him out of her sight for the moment. The entire time she's been brewing their tea, Grace has kept an eye on him. She's not about to leave him now.

"I don't think I can do more days like today, Grace," Boyd admits, shocked how easy it is to say those words. He knows he sounds weak, but he feels it too, as bothersome as it is. Maybe he really is too old for this, no longer the strong, bullish bloke who charges headlong into any situation and worries about it later.

He's been shot at about half a dozen times in the two full months he's been working here, though never as personally as today. It won't be the last time by any means. Maybe that is what gets to him.

"What happened?" Grace asks, and it strikes him that she doesn't know a thing. Shouldn't she be able to read it from his posture, his expression, being a bloody psychologist as she always claims?

His silence must last longer than he realises because suddenly she's a lot closer, almost wrapped around him, making soothing nonsense-noises, her hands drawing patterns over his skin. It's only then that he realises that he's shaking. That he's lightheaded.

Shock.

In medical terms, he is in shock. In emotional terms, though he doesn't want to use the words, Boyd is in shock also.

"The interpreter..."

"He didn't use his fist?" Grace affirms.

He shakes his head.

"Any casual...?"

Boyd shakes his head again.

"Pulled a gun," he chokes out. "I looked him in the eye. Knew I'd die."

A violent shudder almost throws him off the sofa, except for Grace's tight grip on him. His throat is tight. His chest is tight. Everything is closing in on him, it seems.

"I...I didn't say... goodbye...to you," he manages before the gagging comes, before he almost curls into a ball under the pressure.

Grace doesn't speak, beyond soft croons whispered against his neck, her arms tightening around his body as much as she's able, while she gently rocks him. Her clenched teeth are the only thing that keep her tears from falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.


	5. Day 101

**4th - Day 101 (April 18th)**

  
It all, and always, comes back to the certainty that he hates this place with a passion. Everything about it is a pain in the arse.

He's edgy and tetchy and the first person to suffer from it is Grace. The problem is that she is pretty much in the same situation and therefore not in the mood to indulge him. Last night's row was one of the more spectacular ones, comparable with their worst during CCU-times. Something small sparked it and off they went, tearing strips off each other.

It's not healthy and it's not helpful, especially since it hasn't been the first and the time span between their rows is becoming dangerously smaller.

Apart from them both needing to let off steam, it's also the looming question that grows larger in the background with every day they survive. They are into their fourth month here and can actually already count down the days in easy numbers. The looming question is the after.

Grace isn't naïve, which is part of why he loves her. She knows that he can't just retire quietly to some cottage in the country and pick up gardening. It sounds tempting while they are in this arid hellhole, but they both know that he'd go mad within weeks.

No, as much as he hates it here now, they both know that given the opportunity, he will return here or to any other Godforsaken hellhole on this planet. Every time they ask.

It's how he is; it's who he is.

It's not who Grace is.

The tension stemming from this slow realization is what leads to their increasing number of fights. He doesn't want to admit it. Yet. She is pushing. The result is inexorable. They fight.

And now they are both sulking. Licking the wounds they inflicted.

In London, he would have marched off, slamming the door to her house so loudly that the neighbours would have looked out of their windows. But this isn't London and he doesn't have that luxury.

They are stuck here and every step out of camp, even every careless step inside the camp, can be fatal. They haven't said or kissed goodbye this morning, courtesy of magnificent and long-practiced sulking, and the thought weighs heavily on his mind that if he died today, their last words would have been in anger. Worse though, is the image of her lifeless body, the idea that he'd kiss cold and dusty lips without her hearing him apologize.

It's his worst nightmare, even when they don't fight. He hasn't told her that this is what he sees when he wakes up in a cold sweat with the image of dead bodies and her face superimposed on them. She probably knows, Grace always does, but she hasn't asked. Yet.

It won't be long, because the intervals between the nightmares grows increasingly smaller, with their only variation being himself facing down the wrong end of a gun barrel.

The post-mortem will come, mainly because he expects that there is something she doesn't tell him either. He doesn't relish the fact. Just like he doesn't really look forward to returning to their small bungalow where tensions run high and they can't escape from each other.

The 4x4 rattles through the potholes, jarring him out of his thoughts for a moment and he sweeps his gaze over the scene outside. It looks normal, as normal as it can be in Kabul on a normal day. There is nothing ordinary about it, his suspicious nature according itself with sad experience. There is no such thing as normality in this place, where every person and everything can be what kills you.

The only normality he has is that little bungalow in the camp, Grace's eyes and her warm and gentle body. Dreading to return there is madness. Yet, he knows that they still don't have normality.

What they do here is so far removed from anything that he wonders too what will come after the six months.

And maybe that’s what their row has been about as well. They've never been a normal couple, never established a real routine. The few weeks after getting together, those heady and surprisingly wild weeks of pure bliss and frenzied passion are not what one does in a steady relationship, and three and a half months in a war zone does not help build such a relationship either.

They will not know what to do with each other, when there is no adrenaline to be chased, when the daily things will be boring and so utterly mundane that he'd rather bang his head against a wall than perform them.

Grace is more perceptive about it than he is, by a long shot. And she is the thinker of the two; the worrier as well. It's very possible that she wants – no needs – to force a reassurance from him in this regard and that he hasn't even noticed.

There is no question in his mind that Grace is the last woman in his life. None will follow her, none will replace her. Not temporarily, not constantly. It's the final act of his love life. The thought gives him jarring pause, because just as he didn’t contemplate retiring quietly on a professional level he didn't ever entertain the thought of doing so on a personal level, either.

Six months he traipsed around the world to battle his demons, and a surprisingly large part of those six months he spent coming to terms with the fact that this prickly woman of long, complicated words and no idea when to stop pestering him is the 'one' for him. He’d imagined how to tell her, how she'd react, how they'd celebrate. He'd spent many more or less blissful hours fantasising about how it would be when her body would replace his own hands. He knew that she'd be his forever...but he never made the time to envision how forever would look and work.

At this particular moment, London seems very far away, but when they are done, what will they do with each other then? Neither he nor she has asked the question directly, but that might be the core of the problem. It's also what unsettles Boyd deeply. Grace is the one who always has an answer, even if she provides it so cryptically that he needs a translator to understand it; that she is at a loss as well is simply not feasible.

She's got a special talent to subtly make him do what she wants, but if she doesn't know, what is he, Boyd, to do?

Shaking his head, Boyd deliberately pushes his thoughts away and tries to focus on the job at hand. They are checking a scene at one of the local government buildings today. Not necessarily the safest place in town, if there is any, but they'll make do. Even though it's only a case of a simple break-in and vandalism, it's a good case. The recruits will get the chance to do some proper forensics work. They've gone all-out in terms of materials to ensure there is actually some forensic work to do. Eve or Frankie would laugh at the equipment, but Boyd is still proud of it.

They are making progress in the training and in the clean-up rate of actual investigations. This month they have already managed to solve a dozen crimes. It's one every day and a half, an accomplishment Boyd is happy to hand over to his recruits. There's nothing like the rush of success and the ability to glory in the work they do. It also has the interesting side effect of having their reputation improving amongst the locals. They are no longer watched with a mixture of disdain and pity. People become interested, talk and even sing their praise when they meet. Application numbers have increased as well.

On top of it all, he also has a few men on his team who will not only make great police officers and detectives, but who will also be able to pick up the training and continue it for new recruits.

Inshallah, if they live long enough.

He keeps watching his men, some of whom have already saved his life quite literally, others who have endured life-threatening situations with him. None of them is Spence or Mel or Stella...or even Kat or Andy...or Sarah. It could never be like it was down in the dungeon in London, but they are decent men.

They are beginning to know their trade well, leaving him only to watch and supervise while they are processing and assessing the scene. Leaving him to think.

Leaning against the wall next to the window, out of sight of anybody on the streets, Boyd does just that.

* * *

 

Lunch time and lunch time prayers have come and gone. The processing of the scene is almost finished and to Boyd's surprise it’s gone off without a hitch so far. He can already see his men beginning to pack up, performing the closing acts of any crime scene processing. It looks good and he can be satisfied with the results of the excursion. Unless anything unforeseen happens during the next three to four hours, it should be a successful day.

They've even managed to incorporate a few community-building exercises. Those made his stomach churn, still make him uneasy, but so far it has gone well.

Funny that professionally things run smoothly while his home life treads on precarious paths. It's a bit of déjà vu. He's had that before, decades ago, with devastating consequences.

Young Ranhja catches his attention, drawing him out of the dark tumble his mind has become, and Boyd gratefully pushes the thoughts aside. He walks slowly, with very measured steps, towards his men.

"Sir?" young Ranhja questions, gesturing towards the neatly packed cases and leftovers from the scene. It looks tidy and straight-forward. For the first time since he's been in charge. Inwardly Boyd smiles. This is the kind of thing his superiors expect, but it's more than that. It's what he has come to want, what he has wanted the men to achieve.

Little of that shows in his face though. He nods calmly, his voice even as he sweeps the area and says quietly, "Looks alright."

The men don't expect much more, nodding amongst themselves. Only the youngest, Ranhja again, smiles briefly.

"Careful during the transport. We start analysing right away." The order is gruff and Boyd turns away, before he's even finished. In his head he can almost hear her familiar voice, needling him to be more personal. He ignores it.

Those are grown, war-hardened men. They don't need any pussy-footing. They aren't like the soft lads that walk into the academy now, constantly needing reassurance and praise.

He can almost hear the argument that would ensue if Grace were here now, is glad that she isn't. Doesn't even want her to be part of this, of his success.

Slowly he trudges after his men, climbs onto the back of the SUV with them, despite his aching joints.

If anything, Boyd's mood grows even darker.

* * *

The evening is sunny, holding a hint of real spring coming to the area. It's the kind of evening where he would take his pint or his whisky outside the pub to get some air. In London the entrances to the pubs would be crowded with thousands of others having the same idea. Normally a reason to grumble, now it sounds like bliss.

In London he'd go to the pub to avoid the situation he's facing now. Kabul doesn't offer the same opportunity. He can't just go away and hope the problem disappears into thin air.

It never did in London, either.

Grace is already home when he turns up. Unusually early.

The way she moves about the small space of their bungalow screams tension. Her body is jerky, so tightly wound that she might snap at any moment. She studiously tries to act casually, but Boyd has watched her for years, catches the act of it.

"Evening," he says quietly, trying to sound as even as possible.

Grace's reply is even shorter, even quieter and even more restrained.

It feels like stepping onto a frozen lake, carefully testing out every step, knowing that the wrong one will lead to crashing straight through the ice. The silence is tense, but every word seems to be hazardous. They are civil to each other, but the deep wounds from spats long past are not forgotten. Sometimes there are even phantom pains remaining.

"Want anything for dinner?" Grace asks, her voice thin but without hidden emotions Boyd can't decipher. He isn't hungry at all, his stomach in knots, but he nods.

"Yeah, sure."

Belatedly, it comes to him that they rarely have anything in the kitchen and to get it, Grace would have to....

"I've got some of the roast from the mess earlier," she hurriedly explains, both calming Boyd and setting him more on edge.

He isn't sure what he wants, really. Have her leave him alone or not move out of his sight. It's the kind of situation that he despises, why he avoided committed relationships like the plague in the past. All this tension that causes his muscles to turn into knots and his stomach to burn acidly. All this thin ice, the knowledge that he just can't do and say the right thing.

It annoys the hell out of him, and if it weren't for Grace....

And if he didn't love her so much....

"Oh fuck it!" she suddenly exclaims, her hands slamming onto the countertop.

Startled, Boyd stares at Grace, desperately searching for whatever physical mishap has caused this amount of swearing – in his words, no less. However, there is no spilled food on the countertops or the floor, no scalded limbs, no banged head or anything.

All appears normal, except for the tension in Grace's body which has grown even tighter since he checked a few minutes ago. A real explosion is nigh, Boyd knows that, also knows it could easily end in a blood bath.

"Sit, Peter," Grace orders, her tone an exasperated sigh. "We need to talk."

That...is the understatement of the month.

He sits down on the sofa, stiffly, back straight and hands on his knees. He knows he doesn't look entirely open to whatever Grace has to say, but he is dreading the words. Looking objectively and from all angles, they have shockingly few options.

It occurs to him, while he waits for her to settle down, that she's ignoring the food which will either burn or dry into a lump, but it's not the really important thing. Instead of saying anything he watches her bustling around, producing drinks for the both of them. It's not wine or tea, making it even more clear where this conversation will go.

Finally, after what seems like hours, Grace sits down across from him, on the low coffee table. There's only a small space between their bodies and it gives him hope that this won't be so bad. A fool's hope, of course.

Grace settles, elbows on her thighs, her face buried in her hands. The situation is costing her just as much as it does him, Boyd knows that, and seeing her like this - exhausted and helpless.... She looks so fragile at times, so small and breakable that Boyd just wants to pull her into his body to cocoon her from the hardships of life. It was what he wanted to do with her while she was in hospital with cancer, when she lay collapsed on the concrete hallway floor during the Murray-disaster, the Harry Taylor-debacle. Every bloody time. He never did.

He doesn't now.

But he raises his hand and tenderly places it on her shoulder, his thumb grazing the lines.

She looks up at him with a tremulous smile and he knows one thing for certain: whatever easy way out she'll offer him, it's a no go.

He grimaces slightly, for form really, because she's right and they need to talk, but if he didn't keep up appearances where would they be?

"We can't go on like this, Peter," she says so tiredly that his name is but a sigh.

He doesn't answer.

Grace apparently doesn't expect him to. "We’re going to tear each other apart if we don't stop. It's almost as if it's...."

They've never given a name to the situation that started with Mel's death and ended.... It never did end with their spectacular row and Grace's almost defection. It probably didn't end with Sarah either. At some point, possibly when he finally called her after identifying his son and fell to his knees once she was finally inside his house to save him, things simply were the way they were.

But maybe they don't need a name for that time, they both remember the feeling too well. It was a tearing pain in his heart and in his gut and in his mind as well. Not a feeling Boyd wants to repeat under any circumstances.

"We simply stop then," he offers.

Grace gives him a long look, a deep frown, which relaxes slightly when she realizes he's serious, not flippant.

"We can't, Peter."

He grimaces again. "No," he acknowledges.

"Our rows are nothing but us projecting our deeper problems into petty arguments, to gloss over what really troubles us. It's denial and repression; that's not healthy."

The words are the same, they both know it and accordingly cringe.

"What are our deeper problems then?" Boyd asks.

"You tell me."

He bristles. "You’re the psychologist."

The road ahead is so incredibly clear, bathed in neon-bright light. It will be another argument, about him refusing to talk, ignoring her insights, about her not knowing when to stop nagging him, not simply accepting his words at face value. The same topics, the same words, the same end to it.

Grace is tired of it, he can see it. Feels the same.

It's a useless waste of energy and time.

"I hate this place," he offers by way of opening. Grace smiles briefly. "It's dusty, dirty and cold. Dangerous and adverse to anything of human decency. It's the fucking fag end of the world."

"True."

"I hate the way we have to live here, the cramped quarters, the curious eyes, the crappy food.... All of it! And there's not a decent drink to be had."

"Also true," she offers quietly.

Boyd falls silent, hoping that he's said enough for her to guess the rest. Of course, she already knows it all, but that's not the point of the exercise, is it?

"But?" Grace unsurprisingly prods.

"We were successful with our crime scene processing today. The men are getting into shape, becoming actual policemen."

She doesn't reply to this either, because they both know that he is still meandering around the actual issue.

"And?"

Boyd is silent, just shrugs a little helplessly. Grace does know the problem, doesn't need him to articulate it, but that's actual point of this talk, he acknowledges.

"You know, I've worked most of the time when my kids were young. We needed the money and I...I needed to prove a point, I guess." She is contemplative, even a little quietly amused. "There'll be a few new grandbabies before the year is out."

Her smile widens and Boyd smiles back feeling just a little bit excited himself at the possibility of becoming a sort of a grandfather himself.

"I'll be very happy playing the doting granny to the babies. Writing the occasional paper or even book." Grace looks at him intently. "Taking the occasional random holiday to places of beauty."

Boyd knows that. It's where the crux of the matter lies. They are so different, so....

"Six months after our return from here you'll run to the first posting at any Godforsaken hellhole on this planet. Baghdad, Damascus, Sanaa, Teheran." There's a pause, during which Grace picks up her glass of whisky and stares into the liquid gently sloshing around. "If you last that long."

He wants to deny it, loud words, emphatic words. But it's the truth and he can't.

"Grace...."

"No, Boyd!"

The way it comes out, it sounds final already, as if she has made up her mind.

"You wouldn't come with me then?"

"You wouldn't stay with me then?" she throws back, a lot more sarcastic than his question was. "That's the entire point, Boyd! I don't need to traipse around the world any more, from one hell-hole to the next just to prove a point or to run away from real life. I don't even want that!"

"What do you want then?" he asks, his voice and his temper rising. She has already made her decision, without giving him a chance to prove himself to her. She is the one giving up already.

"I want to live, Peter! Relax, enjoy my life, spend the money I worked my arse off to make on some of the luxuries I think I deserve. Spend time with my family, with the people I love."

"And you think I don't want that, Grace?"

"Honestly?"

He snorts cynically, gestures dismissively, then all-but jumps up from the sofa and starts to pace. "Lay it on for me then, Doctor Foley!"

She exhales loudly, then pins him with her eyes. "No, you don't want that, Peter. I think you think you don't deserve a life in which you are happy. You chase the adrenaline rush, because you’re afraid to sit and calm down and realize that you are just an ordinary bloke like thousands of other ordinary blokes. You’re afraid of doing the same ordinary things millions of ordinary people do, either because you think it's beneath your Mr. Hot-Stuff persona...."

"That's...!"

"Or you don't want it because you are afraid of becoming really old. Weak and helpless. A shadow of your former self."

The words hammer home like a grenade to the gut. So much so that he feels his blood rush in his ears while the bile rises in his throat.

"Admit it, Peter! If you were hit by a bullet tomorrow, you'd welcome the escape!"

"I am not suicidal, Grace." The words come quietly, without fire, but with full conviction.

She exhales again, loudly and shakily.

"I know."

But she doesn't look at him.

Carefully, he shuffles himself back onto the sofa and in front of her. He grabs her hands and pulls them into his lap "What do you propose we do then, Grace?"

There are tears threatening at the edges of her eyes and he pulls her hands up to tenderly kiss her knuckles.

"We could do it the easy way," she starts haltingly. "Admit defeat, acknowledge our lack of compatibility, and once this is over go our separate ways."

The idea hangs in the air for a moment.

"No blame, no name-calling?" Boyd asks somewhat disbelievingly.

Grace smiles thinly. "I am not Mary, Peter. I can distinguish what is your fault and what isn't."

Boyd is silent for a moment. Looking at her, trying to gauge what she expects in terms of an answer. He drops her hand to pick up his glass. He takes a sip of his drink then puts it down again, deliberately slowly.

Taking a deep breath, he answers.

"No.... That's not an option."

Grace sighs. "As it stands, I see it as the only option we have, Peter." She shrugs. "Or do you have a better idea?"

He shakes his head. "No, I don't. I don't have a better idea, because I don't have any idea at all how we resolve this. But I know one thing; I don’t want us to separate." Squeezing her hands, he leans forward to make sure their eyes are locked. "I’m not leaving you, Grace. I told you that, and I meant it. I still do. I am not leaving you." Leaning back he shakes his head, a smile slowly spreading over his face. "We are final. You’re stuck with me for good. Just get used to it."

She shakes her head as well, a little exasperated, but very fond. "What do you expect us to do then? I don't see myself traipsing after you from one crisis-torn region to another, spending my days like the meek little wife waiting for you to come back from playing hero."

It's an absurd image that makes them both chuckle quietly for a moment.

"I also don't want to spend my days waiting for you to get shot. I couldn't bear that, Peter. And I don't need this kind of adrenaline rush anymore."

"I know. And you shouldn't have to." He cups her cheek, traces his thumb along her cheek bone.

She looks so small, so deceptively fragile at times, bringing forth all the protective instincts that will go to waste in the eye of her strength.

"You know what this means then," she says and shatters the moment. "The only option we have is to go our separate ways."

"No, Grace. Understand me. No."

"For God's sake, Boyd. Sitting in London and just opening my door, my heart and my legs for you when you come back from one of your excursions isn't a viable proposition for me either."

"Coarse language, Doctor," he jokes, but turns sombre again quickly. "That's not what I want either. But you're not getting rid of me that easily."

She's beginning to lose her temper, Boyd can see that. Getting up he pulls her along with him, then all but hides her in his arms. Breathing in the scent of her hair, he finds equilibrium and his resolve strengthens. Splitting up is not an option.

"I love you, Grace," he declares quietly into the silence of the room. Her body coils then shakes a little in reply, as if she can't control the sob escaping into his shirt. "I don’t say it often enough, probably, but that doesn't make it any less true. Losing you is not an option for me."

Boyd knows she wants to ask the obvious question, but he just pulls her tighter against him. Slowly, very slowly, she relaxes into his arms.

It's not much, but it will have to do for now.


	6. Day 163

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a Happy Birthday-chapter for my lovely beta Joodiff - enjoy :)

**Month 5 - Day 136 (May 17th)**

It's been a good day, Boyd reflects as he sits in the passenger seat of the Land Rover that goes back to the camp. It has to be a good day when by 5.30 pm none of your men have been injured or killed in action.

Cynical, Boyd knows. But outside the car windows the world is a dusty beige-grey-brown, huts and houses low and dirty and the really cynical thing is that he doesn't really see it any anymore.

When he returned to London after his ambling across the planet, he had decided to keep the cynicism at a minimum - in part, because he had reached some sort of plateau of equilibrium in himself, and in part, because he felt that should there be a future with Grace, constant cynicism wouldn't be a basis for the relationship. It's not easy in this place and with all that he sees day in and day out, but because of Grace he keeps soldiering on.

In the Met he had problems dealing with the loss of colleagues, especially junior officers - Mel being the topmost in his memory still, with Sarah and Stella vying strongly for second. He still hasn't completely come to terms with either of their deaths. Here he has lost so many men already - young, hopeful, promising lads, who wanted to go and make their country a safer place. It's such a waste of life.

At times it seems as if they've exchanged hell for purgatory, or the other way around. If it weren't for Grace to come home to every night, Boyd thinks he'd go mad. He knows that she is struggling herself, the endless hours of listening to young men crying for home, crying for their innocence back, wear on her. There are lines in her face that weren't so deep even during the darkest and most stressful hours of their CCU-days and sometimes Boyd wonders when it will all catch up with her. The day must come, he knows, the way she's putting up a front for his sake can't be healthy for her.

He wants to be her rock, that's his idea of a relationship, yet it's Grace whose smile warms him and pulls him back from the darkness. She'll laugh it away, but he knows just how important it is, how much he takes from her presence.

He's damn lucky and after six months without her and five in this hellhole, he can - just to himself, of course - admit to the sentimentality. Love is one thing - he doesn't tell her often enough, he momentarily thinks - but what they have goes far beyond just 'love'. Grace will understand when he flounders through the attempted verbalization of his emotion. Understand and smile.

This is not the place for flamboyant declarations.

Today, however, he's brought every one of his men back to headquarters, they've made headway with several crime scenes and even stamped three cases finished. Petty things, but every success is something on and for the road they are on. After close to five months they deserve every success they have. Realistically speaking, being here for a few months is useless, it will take years to establish proper crime scene procedure and crime investigation, but all things considered....

Boyd breathes deeply, glad for the air conditioning in the car. Today has been a good day and he doesn't want to turn it negative in his mind. Grace always says he should enjoy the good bits and push away the bad.

It's what he intends to do, top off a good day at work with a nice and somewhat romantic - he can do that if he wants to - evening in their small cocoon of privacy.

Arriving at the entrance of the camp, they all notice that something is off. The guards are edgy and the young private who checks their IDs three times has shaking hands. Boyd exchanges a glance with the driver, then with the two men in the back. The guards are from a new detachment, only been in town for two weeks, and from the looks of it some of them have absolutely no experience of actual warfare.

There's been some heightened tension in town over the last few days, something to do with some alleged disregard for Muslim customs. It's not a new accusation, and nobody really knows whether it is true this time or not. Cynical again, but they know that such things happened often enough involuntarily or from lack of knowledge, but also, and that's where it becomes dangerous for them all, from simple idiocy.

The young men guarding the gate are inexperienced, so they quake in their boots at the first sign of trouble. They'll have to learn, Boyd thinks and forgets them and their raised eyebrows and agitated whispers, once they've passed into the compound. There are more important things for him to consider.

He has plans for the night, which is why he asks the driver to take him to the small camp shop. With any luck, they'll have a decent bottle of wine in store. Price will be extortionate, but he won't mind much. It's difficult to come by anything really; fine Italian red isn't high on the list of priorities. They've both cut down their alcohol intake considerably due to the lack of available material. Not the worst thing to happen, but sometimes.... Today is such a day and Boyd won't mind chucking out some considerable coin.

She's worth it, they are worth it, and her idea of spending a full month in a villa in Tuscany after this is over grows in appeal every day.

Inside the shop the light is dim, probably a problem with the generators again. The soldier behind the counter smiles readily enough in greeting, but in him is a certain edginess as well. They do, of course, prefer dealing with Grace when it comes to them obtaining extra supplies, but since it is for her, as Boyd quickly explains, he hopes for speedy and satisfactory service.

The soldier nods and goes through his stock and indeed produces a bottle of Brunello. Boyd doesn't know the exact details, but this will do. To his surprise, the private behind the counter also produces a small bottle of whiskey, the rarest of treats in the camp. It's the serious stuff.

It's a surprise, especially when the soldier only takes the actual price, not some marked-up dream that they usually ask for proper alcohol. The young man doesn't say much, mumbles something along the lines of 'helping along', and grimaces.

It's at that moment that the first specks of unease begin to edge into Boyd's consciousness.

Outside the shop the sun is burning down onto the dirt path. It's actually a nice day with blue skies, little wind and pleasurable temperatures and one would expect that those young men, taking their chance to relax for a few minutes, would be out and about having some fun. The basketball court, makeshift as it is, is empty though, as are the table tennis tables, and the pitches on the side. Nobody's trying out some cricket or kicking a football around.

The open spaces in the middle of the camp are, in fact, deserted, creating a strangely subdued atmosphere.

Boyd notices, of course, the hairs at the back of his neck standing on end. He can't say what it is, but somehow he wants to be in their little bungalow, holding onto Grace and ignoring the world that is outside. It's far from the attitude of a strong, unfazed man, unshaken in his principles and his stand, but maybe his world trip was good for more than just equilibrium and the realization of who he wants to spend his life with.

The unflappable, unapproachable bear of a DSI was a lonely man underneath his mask, and one of the realizations on the trip was that Peter Boyd doesn't want to be lonely if he doesn't have to be.

Their bungalow is quiet and dark when he enters it. Grace pulled down the shutters before she left, making sure that even without air-con, which they rarely use, the place has acceptable temperatures. The place looks just like they left it in the morning, which means that Grace hasn't been back over lunch.

All the better, Boyd thinks and starts getting on with preparations.

* * *

 

Something's off, the instinctive thought becomes stronger while he goes through the motions of setting up the small space. They don't have much in terms of household things, so it's a quick job. From outside it probably looks hilarious, he thinks, Boyd domesticated enough to tidy up and prepare the place to go and pick up food from the Mess, if anybody saw him....

It's not a thought Boyd relishes, but at this moment, it's about keeping himself busy so he doesn't have to think. If he starts thinking, he'll start imagining the worst in vivid colours. These mundane things have a somewhat calming effect, because he knows something is wrong.

It isn't altogether unusual that Grace is back much later than him; counselling sessions can take a long time and are usually much less predictable than his timetable. However, she didn't say anything about an extended appointment for the afternoon or a post-office hours meeting. In combination with the tense atmosphere in the camp...it somehow adds up.

Before he can think on it more deeply, Boyd is out of the door again, marching towards the medical unit with determined steps. He knows he strikes a formidable pose, hopes for its intimidating effect on the tight-lipped bastards who he expects to spout some bullshit about secrecy and his lack of allowance and security clearance. He's got enough security clearance to pull their wounded and dead out from under some rubble outside in the streets and then investigate the bloody obvious.

They can all stick their clearances and security up their arses.

It's Grace he's interested in, and her failure to return to him at a decent time. That's enough to set him on edge, and if those bastards aren't smart to see it then they'll get what's coming to them. Pissed-off Boyd!

He can already see it before his mind's eye, a deep feeling of anticipatory satisfaction coursing through him. He hasn't really shouted at somebody just for shouting's sake for a while, despite the gigantic row with Grace last month. It's been too long and it might be the only way he'll get through the gripping fear that closes around his heart.

If anything's happened to her - anything....

The camp becomes visibly busier the closer he comes to the hospital complex, too busy to be normal, and the dread increases.

The soldiers standing around the entrance to the building are armed, which isn't altogether unusual, but their weapons are trained on everything and everybody. There's also the blink of glass shards on the ground, the sun innocently reflecting from them.

"Sir." A private, barely old enough to tie his own shoelaces, stops him. "You cannot enter this building at the present time."

Boyd bristles at that, builds himself up to lay into the young man. But the lad is a still a few inches taller and the machine gun in his hands is a convincing argument that getting angry here and now will be without result.

"Why?" he asks instead. It's possible that playing a little dumb and ignorant will buy some time for a familiar face to show up. He'd prefer the face to be Grace's but the knot in his gut tells him that this is wishful thinking.

"We have a situation, Sir," the young man replies. He looks as if he'd like to say what it is, but silence has been ordered apparently. The lad looks pale around the mouth and nose, as if he has to work on keeping his lunch down.

"Yes, I can see that, but I'm with the police training unit, I can help." Alright, it's a big leap from playing dumb to playing the professionally superior card, and not for the first time, Boyd wishes he could just flash his warrant card. It was like an 'Open Sesame'-spell.

The lad looks even more uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, sir, but it's military personnel only."

"Well, what about the civilian personnel in there?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm not at liberty to say."

Boyd clenches his fists, aware of the dead end he is facing. The final card is one he is loath to play, the exposure it would give the both of them unwanted. They have their niché, nicely carved, acknowledged but unobtrusive to the rest of the world. Telling the lad now that his...partner sounds not convincing enough and wife is not a term he wants to be torn apart by the rumour mill...is probably trapped inside that building, enduring God knows what, is not on the cards.

He won't stoop to that.

But that means his dilemma remains. He can't get into the building, can't find out where Grace is. It means his imagination will run wild, more so than it already does. The glass shards on the ground, the edginess in the soldiers. Boyd doesn't need to see blood to know it has been spilled.

He eyes the guards, calculates his options, his chances. They are low, he knows, he's nowhere near fit enough anymore to break through, yet the longer he stands in front of the building, the more it sounds like a viable idea.

"Listen," he gives it one last try, his voice rough and urgent, "the doctors in there...."

The young private must read the signs correctly, for he takes a step back, then shrugs. "Wait here," he says and marches into the building. His fellow guard stands and eyes the older man who looks as if his patience is running out as desperation sets in. Desperate men do desperate things and after today....

It only takes a minute, before the private is back. "I spoke to Major Reynolds, who asked Major Doctor Pearson, sir, and if you are Mr. Boyd, then Dr. Pearson would appreciate it if you came inside."

The private's expression is polite and embarrassed at the same time, but also relieved that the situation could be defused so easily. He didn't relish having to fight the older man, who didn't look like he was used to being told what to do. In fact.... he had seen the lady doctor inside, right at the beginning of this afternoon's disaster and if what he thought was right then it would be good if the man was there for her.

The young man swallows against the bile rising in his throat and grimaces. Nodding to dispel his unease he motions for Boyd. "Follow me, sir. This way."

Inside the building the artificial lights that are on in full force provide a sharp contrast to the outside and somehow it increases the uneasy knot in Boyd's stomach. The narrow hallway is crawling with overzealous uniforms, analysing, debating. There are guns at the ready, shouted words from the offices, the tinkling and beeping of machinery, creating a hectic atmosphere.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out what has happened in here. Since there are no additional guards at the gates or around on the towers, the attack has been an inside job. Has one of the lads lost it as he visited a friend, now confined to a bed, waiting to be flown home on the pretext of never being the same again? Has one of those desperate himself taken a gun and released his misery in a round of bullets?

There are no outward signs of an extended attack, yet you never know until you see it with your own eyes. And on top of it all, where is Grace?

Marching forward, he scans every open door, every nook and cranny, in search of her, only to be disappointed. Yet her office is located fairly at the end of the hall, and the feeling of dread increases. At the end of the hall, tight knots of people block the view, weapons at the ready. If Boyd hasn't felt uneasy before...

"Mr. Boyd?" Major Dr. Pearson appears from one of the offices on the right, his face tellingly pale. There is a smear of blood on his face, but after a quick sweeping look, Boyd knows it isn't his. The man is unhurt, just one hand covered...probably from having touched something splattered.

"Where's Grace?" The words are more a demand than a question and the doctor grimaces slightly. He doesn't answer immediately.

Boyd's patience, however, is running thin. "Where. Is. Grace?!" he repeats, and though he keeps his voice low, every bit of force behind it is audible.

Pearson sighs. "Still in her office," he replies roughly. "She's.... She's...."

There is a very fine and very thin line between Boyd and snapping the other man's neck. "For fuck's sake! What's going on! What is the matter with her?" Exploding is one thing, actually the only thing Boyd can do not to ask the one question that has begun to burn acidly into his imagination. If...if....

His heart stops. If....

"She's still being questioned," Pearson continues finally, fairly choking on the words. "There was an incident."

In reply, Boyd all but laughs, but it comes out as a contemptuous snort. "I'm going in there," he declares and pushes past the men between him and the office door. Behind him Pearson nods for the soldiers to let the other man through, but even if he had not done, Boyd wouldn't have bothered. There is only one thing in his mind now and that's to get through that door and get to Grace.

* * *

 

The first thing he sees is the blood. It's hard to miss, for there's lots of it on the floor and on parts of the furniture. Long years of experience also tell Boyd that it has been a shot into the mouth cavity, badly aimed. The man was not dead immediately.

The range of the splats also show that he has done it standing and very close and on the right-hand side of the desk. Instant assessment is a policeman's aim and ability and Boyd has it in abundance, but for once he wishes he didn't.

In the midst of it all, her face, her front, even her legs covered in splatters of blood, sits Grace. While there are people speaking to her and she even answers, he can see that she isn't...well...she isn't fully there.

It strikes him, not for the first time, how incredibly fragile she looks at times. With the lost look on her face, a warming blanket around her shoulders and the blood on her, she looks for all the world like a small child who's got lost in a department store.

His first instinct is to rush to her side and pull her into his embrace, but in her shock it's probably counter-productive, so instead Boyd quietly calls her.

"Grace?" He closes the distance slowly, mindful not to step on too many evidence marks. Yet from what he can see, it matters little. It's a clear-cut thing forensically. Psychologically though....

The young soldier guarding Grace eyes him wearily, but Boyd ignores him, crouching down in front of her. Who else is in the room is of no consequence, who speaks, what other noises there are, all unimportant.

Carefully, he extends his hand to brush a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Grace?" he says again, quietly, soothingly. "Grace?"

"Yeah?" Her reply is weary and croaky, but there is recognition in her reaction.

Covering her hand with his, he gently pulls her chin with his other to make her look at him. Her eyes are blank, but not fully unresponsive and that gives him hope.

"Are you alright?"

It's a stupid question, painful in its inanity, but Grace actually smiles in return. "Just a little dirty. And a little shaken."

Boyd grimaces, then shrugs. "Can I do anything?"

Her grip on his hand tightens, just as her smile deepens for a moment. "Stay with me?"

* * *

 

It's quiet in the bungalow. Very quiet and very dark. They have only two candles left burning and no artificial light but it's alright. After the screaming brightness in the medical building Grace is glad for the shadows and for the intimacy they provide.

She doesn't want to see much, doesn't want to think much. In fact, she could easily reduce her wishes to a very small number of things: safety, comfort and forgetfulness. Sprawled out on the bed in her pyjamas and Boyd's robe, staring into the middle distance without a coherent thought qualifies as a good step in her mind.

The bed dips as Boyd sits down next to her, carefully balancing two glasses of wine. Where he's got it from she doesn't know and isn't very interested in either.

"Want a glass?" he asks gruffly and though she shakes her head there is a wave of tender gratitude that wells in her at the gesture.

He places the glasses on the small table in the corner, then crawls back onto the bed and pulls her into his arms. Under different circumstances Grace would have analysed his behaviour, recognised it as his need to assure himself of her safety and physical wellbeing, and smiled indulgently. Tonight, however, the only thing she cares about is the fact that he is there and actually does take her into his arms.

She doesn't want to talk about it, not yet. She can't. The time will come, but tonight she just needs to be held. The shakes came unbidden and unexpectedly, her body seizing up all of a sudden. It's as if she's a puppet and somebody is pulling on her invisible strings.

She shivers, a chill spreading from her skin into the depth of her body, seemingly freezing her from outside in and from inside out.

An unholy sound rises from the depth of her gut, rolling upwards until it sits in her throat, choking her, taking away her breath. Bile comes along with it, gathering, waving around like waves on a stormy sea.

And then it releases in an unearthly sound, not a scream, not a sob yet.

A groan from deep down where it is black and inky, the ground like molasses, opening up and swallowing one whole.

Boyd, though he has expected a reaction, knew it would come, feels his heart stop for a moment as the sound breaks loose, caught in shock as well. He knows he can't help, not if Grace loses control and leaves the tight grip of his arms, or if she kicks out with a lot more force than she is usually capable off.

He finds the comparison to an animal, aware of the lethal danger it's in, incredibly apt. If she leaves his arms, he'll be helpless and God knows what will happen....

Finally, after minutes of shakes and unearthly sounds, after an eternity of tamped down panic in Boyd, the sobs finally come. As her body convulses under the force of her despair, he bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to remain in control. One of them needs to and right now, it's Grace who needs him to provide the final security net, the one he's used to falling into.

His arms remain tight around her frame, he doesn't even dare loosen his hands, lest Grace escape in a sudden pique.

But the sobs take everything out of her spirit while they also ravage her body.

At last, when all strength is zapped from her, she becomes pliant, almost melts into his body as if to be absorbed by his. She is warm, almost overheated, yet she shivers. His shirt is damp where her tears fell and still do.

She becomes utterly silent and it's on Boyd to make himself known. Quiet words of nonsensical assurance flow from him, words he won't remember later and which don't matter as long as it is his voice crooning warm syllables in her ear, his arms around her and his hands soothingly stroking over her body.

Completely spent, Grace finally drifts off - though he knows it won't be long before nightmares wrack her - and only then does he allow himself a quiet sigh of relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated


	7. Day 163

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this - last chapter to the story - and I didn't exactly have a positive relationship. I shouted at it, we mutually ignored each other for weeks, and the chapter was hellbent on not doing what I wanted it to. But it's done. It's here. Enjoy. And leave me a comment, if you would be so kind,

**Month 6 - Day 163 (June 19th - a Sunday)**

 

It's strange to ride inside the cabin while his men are in the back. He thinks they've given him some odd looks, but doesn't find it in him to care much about that. There is not a chance that he'd be in the back today. If he were, Boyd knows, Grace would be too, and that is completely out of question.

There's not a chance in hell that he'll allow Grace any unnecessary exposure to anybody who might feel even remotely offended at the sight of a western woman out in town while they are out of the compound. There's nobody left inside the compound who dares not to watch out for her anymore since last month's incident.

Taking her out of the supposed safety has had Boyd growing ulcers for days. He's become tenser almost by the second since the decision was made. Under different circumstances, he wouldn't even consider taking Grace out to a crime scene but he needs her profiling expertise. It's supposedly more like what they saw regularly back in London. Double murder with an as yet inexplicable motif. He'd love some of Eve's or Frankie's sophisticated forensics, but not even they could provide all the insight they need. They do need a profiler and that's what Grace is.

He's told the men in advance, but he knows they are far from convinced. It brought a small smile to Grace's face when she heard him describe the men's expressions. She must feel like having travelled back in time. He feels like he's travelled back in time. The potholes shake the car, shuffle Grace against him and he can't suppress the small smile at the intensified contact. Under different circumstances he'd tease her about the teenage situation they are in. But it takes only one look at the cloth almost entirely covering her body and her head to bring him back to jarring reality. Of course, Grace is not wearing a full burka, but even the bit of covering she uses makes Boyd uneasy. It singles her out, in any case. And there are already so many things that could go wrong during this outing.

The next bump in the road is violent and Boyd swallows the curse on his tongue in a hiss. He is worked up already, getting even more so is dangerous.

They both know it.

Grace next to him grimaces, he can see, but he can also feel her shuffling closer to him, her thigh pressing deliberately against his. It's all they can do, otherwise she'd be squeezing his hand to calm him down. He nods slightly, the corner of his mouth fleetingly turning upwards in acknowledgement. Grace notices, but her face gives nothing away.

The driver mutters in a broken mix of Arabic and his local dialect; an apology, if he understands Grace's reply correctly. The man tenses and she falls silent again.

Today's scene is a bit of a rite of passage for the men who will process it. They don't know that Grace will not only be there to assess the psychological aspects of the crime, but also to help him assess the progress his recruits have made over the last five months. Boyd is in no doubt about the quality of the core group of four or five, it's the others he wants Grace's opinion on.

It sounds easy enough; they have done this hundreds of times back in London. Boyd stops himself mentally providing the obvious comment. It is getting repetitive, which does nothing for his ease of mind.

Repetition leads to tranquility. Tranquility leads to mistakes. Mistakes can be deadly.

It's only a few minutes later when they reach their destination and the moment he climbs out of the car and then helps Grace down, Boyd can feel the tension in his body increase. It's possible that he is overreacting, but what if not?

Grace accidentally bumps into him as they round the car to the back, but as he passes her hand quickly brushes against his side. No accident, then. It calms him somewhat.

The scene is partially inside the building, partially in its shadow. One body inside, one outside, just around the corner. Straight forward at first sight, but without even looking at Grace, Boyd knows that she sees a lot more than the first sight suggests, even from such a distance. It's the gut feeling from decades of dealing with innocuous looking crime scenes. Nothing is ever quite as it seems at first sight.

The men swarm the scene to assess it and Boyd is pleased to note that they take all the necessary precautions not to taint any evidence without him having to remind them. Next to him Grace nods, a small smile gracing her features.

"They know what they are doing," she whispers.

He doesn't reply, his focus on the body just beyond the door. The men walk around the body, crouch down, talk quietly amongst themselves. They supposedly do the same inside the building, though their steps seem to be even more uncertain. Even from this far Boyd doesn't need a psychologist's opinion to understand their behaviour.

"Report!" he bellows, briefly amused by just how good it feels to do it.

Next to him there's something that might be a short-lived snort, but he can't be sure, as the men return and report their initial findings. Nothing really unusual, they say hesitantly, except the posture of the corpse. Not a natural pose for somebody having been shot.

"Dragged there?"

Young Rajha nods, a hint of a grimace flitting over his face. "Blood smears on ground."

"Shot outside with other man," Abdul confirms, even less calm than his colleague.

"What's inside with the corpse?"

The men hesitate; answer only after he's repeated his question. "Koran, many linen cloths. No shoes. Shoes gone from man outside too. Knives."

Boyd turns to look at Grace, trying to guess what she derives from the information given. He doesn't need to be told that there's a ritual aspect to all this, but what exactly, he isn't sure.

Her gesture is minute, but he follows her a few steps further. Her voice is quiet under the wind blowing through the street. "We need to be very careful here, cut the site assessment as short as possible. Otherwise we'll offend the locals."

Boyd nods, he's been thinking along the same lines.

"Check the angles of the entrance wounds," she offers, "have them look for anything to make a large fire."

"Ritual suicide?"

Grace shrugs. "Happened before. It’s feasible the victims were shot, possibly in some sacrifice. Possible they did it themselves. The materials would be used for a mourning ceremony."

Nodding slightly, Boyd passes on the orders, feeling an uneasy edge at the closed-off faces of his men. They know the order comes from the woman, possibly one thing too many on top of the obviously religious killing they have to investigate. They want to do policing, they want to solve crimes, but there is no question that they believe, first and foremost, in the adherence of their religious demands. They are willing, but it only goes so far.

Boyd follows them, enforcing his orders. Inside the building, his gaze is immediately drawn to the body. His instincts, forced to lay almost dormant over the last months, kick in as he surveys the key aspects Grace has pointed out.

The placement of the body implies some sort of ritual being set up, which almost immediately would preclude them from being able to gather proper forensics from the body. Sullying a religious site...it would be a lot worse than doing so with any Pagan or Christian ritual...and Boyd prefers not to remember the kinds of bloody bastard hell they caught every time they came across one of those.

From the angle he has, he can't judge whether the wound was self-inflicted either. Bollocks to it all.

Around him the men are uneasy. He doesn't know enough of the religious pitfalls, curses his lack of knowledge. Grace can't come inside, he can only....

Inwardly, the swear words become more colourful by the minute as he can see this excursion going to hell in a handbasket.

"Let’s leave this inside and see about the other," he orders.

Boyd isn't sure, but upon the first step outside, it feels as if the wind has changed, so to speak. He might be overreacting, too many thoughts about too many things, exactly what he hates with a passion. The simple training and assessment excursion has already gone wrong, he knows; nothing is as simple as it was supposed to be.

Seeing Grace in the middle of the road, his hackles rise, along with a ball of....

"Get inside the car," he orders quietly, garnering a raised eyebrow in return.

"What's wrong?"

"Grace, for God's sake," he blusters, "stop being difficult and just get into the damn car!" Of course, she doesn't simply follow his order; of course she can't just do what he wants her to. She simply has to question him, argue even in the middle of a dirt road, outside some religiously orientated crime scene in a questionable part of Kabul. Even though she knows the situation, knows the risks he is trying to avoid, she can't just let it lie. That's just so Grace. And he can't even start yelling, because that would upset some obscure tenet of politeness.

She gives him a look from narrowed eyes, clearly displeased with his behaviour, and he can almost imagine the 'discussion' she'll no doubt want to have to dissect his supposedly atrocious behaviour. But for that they need to get back alive, don't they?

"Just get into the car, Grace," he repeats much more quietly and to his eternal relief she at least moves towards the car. Small favours and such things.

He looks around the street, but Boyd knows it's a waste of time. Every person in this Godforsaken street has followed the exchange. Sometimes Boyd wonders how crimes can remain unresolved, when the people he encounters have such a penchant for gossiping. Grace has berated him for this prejudice several times over the last months, but he can't help it. People's interest in other people's affairs bothers him. Here, just as much as back home.

A short and sharp command sends the recruits scurrying, but it seems too late already. The attention is already too much on them. There are, naturally, the curious men, the few curious women and the many curious children he can see gathering on the road, coming closer, some brave souls even nearing the car. Some of the children already surround Grace; no surprise there.

What bothers Boyd are those he can't see openly, those hiding in houses, around corners, behind piles of rubble. There's a quick flash of a memory, the interpreter who turned against them, raised a gun against him. He doesn't want a repeat performance of that.

His second command is even sharper, more urgent too, and it finally seems to snap the men out of their state and send them back to work.

For a few minutes everything seems to run smoothly, and Boyd makes a deliberate attempt to relax. It doesn't work. Forensics are pointless. Judging from what they already know, a thorough investigation into the possible offender would do more harm than good. Still, Boyd is inherently and genetically a policeman and as such, he can't just let it lie.

Waving Ranhja to follow, he heads towards the car. The younger man hesitates upon noticing the direction. "Ranhja!" Boyd commands sharply, unwilling to accept any more dillydallying. The situation doesn't improve the longer they stay, but some sort of result needs to be achieved.

He waves Grace closer, noticing with a short blip of annoyance that, of course, she did not go and sit in the car. Bloody woman.

As soon as she is in hearing distance, he turns to the young recruit. "Ranhja, is this house some sort of mosque? Or a prayer room?"

The man shakes his head. "No," he announces with a quick glance at the woman.

"Is this place used for any sort of religious practice?" Again, the younger man replies negative.

"But we can safely say that this is not some ordinary murder for money or a quarrel?"

Ranhja fidgets nervously. "Yes."

Boyd looks at Grace expectantly. "Your professional opinion, Doctor?"

She smiles, briefly, aware of the young man next to them. Turning towards him, she asks politely. "I know it might be seen as a terrible affront towards the customs of the people. And I know I’m putting you in a difficult situation. Do you have an idea how I could see the inside of the building?" Her hand shoots up in Boyd's direction before he can say anything. "Otherwise it is tealeaf reading, Boyd."

Watching the exchange, Ranhja seems to fight a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. It's not proper behaviour for a woman in public of course, and it's not proper behaviour for a man to accept it like Boyd does and is obviously used to doing. In all honesty, he has missed these small squabbles at the sidelines of a scene. It feels like back home in London when all was still glorious and they were a scary number of years younger.

The young Afghan addresses Grace directly. "They see you go in, they say is holy site. You go in, they say holy site is...." Visibly searching for the right word, he finally shrugs. "Is...dirty," he finishes. Uncomfortable doesn't begin to describe his demeanour and Boyd doesn't need Grace's expertise in reading people to know that apart from cultural prejudices the young man has problems to overcome, there is also a distinct level of anxiety in him. Association isn't necessarily a positive thing in such a case.

"It is a holy site then? Religious, even though it hasn't been before?" Grace asks.

"Not yet," Ranhja confirms.

Grace accepts the finality of the remark with a nod, unlike Boyd who is tired of all the hold-ups.

"Grace," he calls none too gently, motioning her to follow him towards the building. She does, but her reluctance is palpable, just as much as Ranhja's tension next to him.

"Sir," he cautions, but Boyd shakes his head.

"I know, it is almost pointless, but if we want to get anything out of this scene, she needs to see it."

"People will be angry."

Boyd almost laughs at this. "Then it will be finally business as usual."

* * *

 

The men tense up immediately as Grace comes close, though she tries to be as unobtrusive as possible. Naturally, it doesn't work.

She bypasses the building to see the body lying outside, stays in a respectful distance to the dead man, keeps silent.

The atmosphere around them, however, grows more tense and menacing by the minute.

Boyd can feel it, can see it in her stance that she knows it too.

"Boyd," she quietly addresses him.

He knows his bullheadedness is what’s one day going to kill him. The excursion was a mistake, Grace's presence or not. He's known it from the moment they arrived, but has ignored it for his damn need to feel like a detective again. The conversation with Gina, back at Christmas briefly flits back into his mind and he shakes himself. Dwelling on thoughts is not going to be helpful. Action is required.

Admitting defeat, he orders quietly, "Go back to the car and stay inside."

She doesn't answer, but moves cautiously back towards the vehicle.

His senses in full force, he can almost hear the dust rattling over the ground, see the sun burn down on the grey-brown landscape of huts and dirt roads. Something's coming, he knows it with absolute certainty.

"Let's move out of here," he orders the men, effectively abandoning the scene and the case. It doesn't sit well with the detective he never stopped being, but the cost might be too high for what they could possibly achieve.

There is a group of people rounding the corner on the other side of the street, men mostly, a few boys and adolescents. All local, all agitated, all shouting.

Boyd quickens his steps.

He doesn't want to presume anything, can't be sure, but this is a situation of erring on the side of caution. Especially, since the group seems to make straight for the cars that brought them here and where Grace is still headed. She's not inside and even if she were...

There are at least 20 people in the group, their aim easily discernible, their reasoning as well.

Boyd starts running, more out of instinct than real knowledge.

He'd shout, but it won't help now. It wouldn't make Grace move faster, it wouldn't stop this group of men. Only possibly aggravate them more.

He runs faster, trying to bring his body in between the angry mob and Grace, praying inwardly that his team will step in and help. They did it for him, why not for her.

There are only a few feet left between him and Grace, just a few hasty steps and he can shield her body with his, but he can feel the group closing in as if they are breathing down his neck. Their shouts resound in his ears, their steps resonate on the ground, every sensation amplified.

Grace turns, calm until her gaze connects with his and her eyes grow wide. She stares at him, blue against dark, for an interminable time, then her gaze goes wild. He can see her opening her mouth in a scream, can even see that her lips form his name, but he can't hear the sound, for in that moment, like an explosion of a bomb, a shot rings out behind him.

It's all he hears, and it's all he feels as something burning touches him, creating a fire that consumes his body in pain.

She screams again or still, he isn't sure. Everybody seems to scream around him. Everything seems to scream. He stares at Grace, sees her face contort in whatever horrible emotion she's going through in that particular moment and he feels sorry, so incredibly sorry that she has to go through this. Again.

Gracie hanging onto his leg at Christmas turns rapidly into Luke laughing at him and demanding the football, Mel's face, the less than salubrious platform under Waterloo Bridge. And Grace. Grace, Grace...and Grace again.

And then he falls, the bullet in his chest burning his body from the inside.

* * *

 

The earth is shaking, why he can't say. It's all hazy, all a blur, even behind closed eyelids. Underneath the haze there is pain, searing like he can barely remember. He notices that somebody has placed him on his side, not his preferred sleeping position; he wants to complain, only to realize that it doesn't matter. He'd be glad for more darkness, where things aren't hazy and not painful, but it doesn't seem to come.

From afar he can hear something that must be voices, sounds he cannot place. It's an effort to even identify them as such, too much it seems.

He doesn't remember what has happened. His situation seems wrong somehow, not how it is supposed to be. Weren't Grace and he supposed to be sitting by a pool somewhere in Northern Italy these days? Grace has set her heart on going there and though it's all the same to him, he has set his heart on letting Grace have what she wants. There are a lot worse things, he thinks.

This is not Tuscany though, nor is he at the wheel of the classic roadster he'd imagined himself renting and gunning down a few picturesque country lanes. He's lying on shaky ground, hurting like when he was knifed, and everything is hazy.

It is a monumental task and Boyd isn't sure he can deal with the swelling nausea, but one of the voices sounds familiar and he wants to know whether he is right. One eyelid is pried open, then the other and all he sees at first, is dirt. Dust. On planks. The dust jumps and flies with every pothole, making him want to cough. He can't.

Too painful.

"Boyd?"

Grace sounds tentative, thin, but it's good. It's Grace.

Another monumental effort and he can move his head to look at her.

There are tear-tracks on her cheeks, constantly fed by more tears. They are like a clear stream in the dirt and blood on her face. Her eyes, welling over, are bluer than the sky he imagines above their holiday home.

It seems to take forever to catalogue all this and he doesn't even manage to notice her hands on him. Exhausted from the little he’s done, his eyes close and Boyd slips away.


End file.
